


to you, in all your majesty

by hurryup



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, D.Gray-man Big Bang 2018, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 00:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15918987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup
Summary: “You’re not so bad, Mr. Link,” Allen said, very firm and very temperate. He paused, smoothing his hands down over the legs of his trousers. “You know. For a bureaucrat.”Link’s lips twitched into a smile. A real, actual smile. It even reached his eyes; ruddy brown lifting into a sun-warmed shade. He turned towards Allen, bent at the waist. He had a particular way of holding himself; a carriage and a character. Ramrod back, stiff at the hips — but a delicate, gentle placing to his hands. Like he was drawing shapes in the air.“There are worse things,” Link said very loftily, “than being a bureaucrat.”“Like being a bastard?”"Like being a bastard," Link agreed.





	to you, in all your majesty

 

DEATHCUP COUNTRY

I

 

 

A whistle. Huff. A shudder passing through the cylinders, pistons shrieking against the tracks.

Sitting pretty in first class, Allen Walker was in a terrible mood. A black mood, even. He felt as sulky as a child, and half as sensible — a sensation not at all helped by the pounding, coal-tinted headache pounding behind his eyelids.

Outside his window, great pillars of smoke billowed by merrily, clogging Allen’s eyes and nose and lungs with its hot, viscous taste. Its sully. Its pollution. Morose, he pressed his fingertips against the glass.

It was with an anthropological curiosity that he peered out over the station, knee bouncing restlessly to the slow, sonorous ticking of the terminal clock.

 Through the narrow partition of the open window, Heatherfield Station was hustling and clattering and _booming_. Railway workers, haggard and dirty, swarmed the stopped train like ants on a fallen honeycake. Slowly, and with great effort, they hauled off everything from battered suitcases to industrial cargo off into the dimly lit loading zone.

 Out in the crowds, men in uniform black suits waited for their business associates. They sniffed. They preened. They checked their watches. Besides them, women fussed over immaculately-dressed children, tugging their boatneck collars, scolding them in murmuring tones.

_Now, now, darling. Behave yourself. It’s only the train coming through._

 Allen was very much in agreement.

This charade was nothing new. After all, he’d been on the road on his life. He’d taken more goddamn trains than he could remember. He’d been stowed like plunder in overstuffed baggage compartments, in grimy bunks, among the lurid glamour of circus performers and magicians and hack fortune-tellers—

And now, for the first time, in first-class.

An honour, Allen supposed. Or at least, it was meant to be an _honour._ It was a lavish compartment. Lavish to the extreme. Neah Campbell had paid for Allen’s ticket, and he had clearly spared no expense. All velvet and silken throws. And _gilding_. The look and feel of it was quite grand, nearly Byzatine; as gold and gaudy as an Ottoman theater.

Allen tried to make himself like it, but the black mood came barreling in, sullen and implacable. Trapped in red velvet throws and bronze decals, he only felt _cramped_ . Cramped and _plush_ , in the way that plushness could sometimes feel overhot and stuffy.

He didn’t feel like he was sitting in a train car. He felt like he was sitting in a felt-lined ringbox.

And perhaps that had been Neah’s intention all along, to cushion and carry Allen like a piece of jewelry. To preserve him in softness, in warmth, in luxury — like something of value, something shining.

Allen didn’t feel like he was shining.

He felt like _cargo._  

There was a cynical bite to that feeling. An ugliness. 

Travelling used to mean something. Something _important_ . He remembered the feeling of it — those first journeys through the great capitals of Europe, Mana a steadying force at Allen’s side. Copenhagen, St. Petersburg, Paris, Vienna. It was all joy. All mad, deluvial, _hysterical_ joy.

The joy of painted railway cars like oversize toysets. The joy of funny men in foreign dress. The joy of cheap peanuts, of throwing the crinky shells right off the balcony.

The joy of being lifted bodily into the train car by Mana’s deft, broad hands.

They would bustle into the station with half-packed luggage; in Allen’s mind, Mana’s coat billowed heroically behind him, blowing out the scent of vetiver grass, old leather and tea. Mana _hated_ packing. He always left it to the very last minute, and even then, he cursed and sulked and whined until the last latch was snapped. They’d pass their tickets and passports hastily — and heave! Allen was lifted skywards, exalted, exonerated. He kicked and squealed until the very second his feet touched the train floor.

_Where to next, Allen? Shall we take the train to heaven? To Fairyland? The moon?_

It was a more innocent time. But then again, that was just youth, wasn't it?

Squinting out at the landscape beyond the station, Heatherfield wasn’t quite the moon, but it was certainly something close. The prairies seemed to go on forever. Their edges were obscured by a whitish fog, pale and cold. The grass and gorse were hardly any darker, frosty green and dry, their knotted beds empty and flowerless. It was a landscape touching vaguely on spooky, but not so much on the magical tip. The blotted sunlight brought the heath and stone into gloomy relief.

Heatherfield looked alarmingly stark and real. 

Allen would have preferred Fairyland. He would’ve preferred the moon. He’d have preferred just about anything to the carriage he knew was waiting for him outside the station, parked alongside the narrow dirt road.

Mr. Neah Campbell’s carriage.

Allen’s stomach turned at the thought of meeting Neah at last. So he turned his thoughts away.

He thought of Monte Carlo, the liquor-and-oleander scent of the streets. He thought of tins of Russian tea, of ink-blotted notes passed through theaters. He thought of the places where the women ran without corsets, barefoot, flowers braided through their hair.

He thought — he _remembered_ — clandestine love affairs with sensuous, exotic men, beautiful for their secrets; the way their shuttered rooms smelled deeply of spiced cologne.

Deeply, beautifully, and painfully.

There was so much to cry for. So much to mourn. Dark, dark evenings diffused only by the flicker of a small lamp. The soft purr of Mana’s hairbrush working through Allen’s hair. Kanda’s hairpins dropping into a glass jar. The tinkling of Mana’s rosary dropping against the dresser

A life left behind.

But if he started to cry now, he’d never stop.

He was certain of it.

England was the country of his birth, but he’d left his heart in Moscow. Here, in Heatherfield, without Mana — he was as lost as a child. As far as he was concerned, he might as well have entered another world. A smaller, duller world.

This was the world of stringent black tea, immaculately tailored suits, good manners, and above all else, duty.

Such an ugly word, _duty._

An ugly, ugly word, suitable for a hideous place. Ugly fucking England, ugly fucking Heatherfield, the withered countryside clotted with the summer homes of the wealthy and the pious.

Allen’s beginning, his end, and his misery.

 _Well, perhaps that’s somewhat melodramatic,_ he thought, a beam of reason bursting through his gloom. His fingers curled around the handle of his carry-on. _Mana wanted me to come here. That means something._

_I can only spend so much of my life wasting his kindness._

_Spoiling it._

At the wave of a red-capped railway employee, he hefted his suitcase and made to deboard.  

 

  
(✽)

 

“Allen Walker?”

The door to the black coach carriage cracked open. Through the darkness inside, Allen could make out a single golden eye — peering out through the gloom with a mixture of suspicion and impatience.

“Neah Campbell?” Allen guessed, fingers twisting nervously over the handle of his old suitcase.

The door swung open a little wider, a gloved hand appearing around the edge. Then, a face. Neah’s face was gaunt, half-cast in shadows — and for now, set with a deep, disapproving frown.

A wonderful start, no doubt.

“You look quite shabby, you know,” Neah went on, eyes raking Allen up and down from within the carriage. There was a look of assessment in his eyes. “That alone could have been forgiven, of course, had you not made me wait. I wrote you with very clear instructions — deboard immediately, find my carriage, and be _punctual_ above all else. Did I overestimate your literacy?”

“I’m perfectly literate, sir,” Allen said flatly, thoroughly unimpressed.

“And yet, you can’t follow even simple instructions?” Neah lifted his wrist, angling it towards the sunlight to reveal the silvery dial of a very detailed, very ornate timepiece. “Your train arrived nearly twenty-five minutes ago. I heard it come in. What took you so long? The mind _does_ wonder.”

“You could’ve picked me up in the station,” Allen pointed out. “I’m sure you’d have seen me deboard immediately.”

Neah scoffed.

“I’m not interested,” he waved his hand about airily in the direction of the station, where men and women were still milling out, children in tow, “in _mingling.”_

There was a bite to his words. One Allen didn’t care for at all.

“With _commoners,_ you mean?”

“With anyone,” Neah returned. His hand disappeared back into the darkness of the carriage.

“You’re mingling with me right now.”

“Yes, and I’m not particularly enjoying it,” Neah sighed. There was some shuffling about in the carriage; Allen imagined he’d folded his arms one over the other, or perhaps kicked the driver’s seat in frustration. A charming man. “That still doesn’t answer my question, Mr. Walker.”

Allen sniffed.

“If you must know,” he murmured, somewhat haltingly, “I walked up and down the street about ten times before stumbling upon the thought that _this_ might be yours.” He gestured at Neah’s black carriage with both hands. “I thought it might be a hearse.”

There was a pause. Then, slightly muffled through the door, a laugh.

“Black and navy are the Campbell family colours. Haven’t you seen our crest?”

“No,” Allen said. 

“Good,” Neah said. Allen could hear the grin in his voice; big and mad. “It’s positively hideous. Now, I assume you’d like a ride?”

He pushed the carriage door open; it swung to its full length. It was then, for the first time in his life, that Allen was offered a full, unobscured of Neah Campbell.

He wore his hair quite short — that was the first thing Allen noticed about him. Mana, after all, had preferred to wear his long. Neah’s hair had an unruly, shellacked quality to it, however, nearly matted. The back end of it was sticking up, reminding Allen of a ducktail. The effect managed to be nearly cute.

From the neck-down, however, he was English nobility through-and-through, oozing wealth and taste with every inch of his body. He wore a black peacoat over his double-breasted waistcoat. It was a fine coat, the make of it was thick, woolen; exorbitant. It was also totally inappropriate for the current weather.

Not that Neah seemed to care.

Overall, Allen didn’t recognize too much from Mana’s scant photographs. So little of Neah’s boyhood features remained — save for the hair and perhaps the shape of his chin.

“Well, what’s my alternative?” Allen asked, eyes falling from Neah to the cane resting against Neah’s seat. It was long and silvery, the peak emblazoned with the head of a gold snake. A curious thing, that cane — Neah surely wasn’t yet old enough to require one, appearing to be in his early forties at most. He was quite a gaunt man, however, bloodshot and milky pale. Perhaps he was chronically ill.

“You could always walk,” Neah suggested. His eyes fell to his sleeve, feigning interest in the double cuff of his shirt.

“And how long, exactly, would that take me?”

“A little over an hour,” Neah murmured, still fiddling, pinching his cufflinks between two gloved fingers, unhooking them, re-looping them. They glittered at his wrists, cold as ice; diamond, maybe. “Hardly a just use of time.”

“Not so unjust. I actually enjoy walking.”

Neah lifted his chin, unamused.

“Oh, you misunderstand me. I don’t care about what you do with _your_ time. I was talking about _mine_. I came all the way here to pick you up. I’m not keen on letting that effort go to waste.” He huffed like a spoiled child. “My acts of kindness are too fickle and far-between to go unappreciated.”

At this, Allen could only roll his eyes.

 _“Such_ hospitality, sir.”

“Is that sarcasm I detect?” Neah let out a short, harsh laugh. “Well, well, aren’t you _precious._ You’ll certainly fit right in.” Suddenly, his gaze darkened. “Like it or not, we _are_ family now, Allen. And so long as we’re family, I see no reason to treat you as a _guest_. So, yes. If you’d call that attitude inhospitable, so be it.” He spread his arms in surrender, “I submit myself to your ire.”

“You treat all your family like this?” Allen asked, affronted.

“No,” Neah said. “I treat them much worse. They deserve it, trust me.”

Allen considered his words carefully. He gave them a long, hard thought.

“You’re a bit of an ass, aren’t you?”

“Just a bit,” Neah agreed severely. Then, again, he laughed. His laughs were abrupt and somewhat hoarse, as if they were being shaken from his body by force. It occured to Allen, then, that Neah wasn’t intentionally cruel, but perhaps just very awkward. “But I think I’m starting to like you, miraculously. Get in the goddamn carriage. I have some cut glasses in here somewhere. Do you drink champagne?” 

“Does _anyone_ drink champagne at eleven in the morning?”

“I do,” Neah said, angling himself down the seat to offer Allen some space. “And you’d better learn to, or I swear to God above, I’ll drain the entire bottle myself before we even reach Campbell Manor.” 

“That doesn’t really sound like my problem.”

“Only it is, isn’t it?” Neah grinned. “I’ll be midday-drunk in front of the entire family, and I’ll ruin _everything,_ and it’ll be all your fault.”

A beat.

Allen gnawed at his lower lip.

“... I’ll have one glass.”

“There’s the spirit.”

Neah hefted a bottle from beneath his seat, popping the cork with his teeth.

It was about a twenty minute ride by carriage; hardly more eventful than the trip by train, save for the flute of champagne between Allen’s fingers. It was crisp and fizzy, and tasted of bitter nothingness.

He sipped it sparingly, watching the landscape shudder beneath the tracks of the carriage.

An endless strip of skyline, horizon to horizon.

Oh, Mana. So _this_ was the view from the moon. White and green and blue, interrupted only by the encroaching spire of the Campbell manor.

And what a beast it was.

Cold, high-walled, stones set with white marbled that gleamed cruelly beneath the morning sun — there was an archaic, almost medieval look to the Campbell home. It was a statuesque building; as imposing as a bank, resplendent as a church, and severe as a sepulchre. Gilt spears and a succession of dry terasses.

There was something grim and ancient about the Queen Anne grandeur of its artifice. Something in the iron-wrought gates sealing it. Something in the snarling hedges, its gilt spears, the wide, dry succession of terasses. Something ancestral.

It was the look of old, old money. Of royalty.

_Excellence by blood._

Allen’s fingers itched for his suitcase. They itched for a little brown envelope, for a handful of faded daguerreotypes. He was itching for evidence of the photographic kind. After all, he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Hardly stomach it.

 _This_ was Mana’s birthplace?

“Quite the structure, wouldn’t you say?” Neah said, gesturing over the gardens with a sweep of his hand. His index landed somewhere before the marble steps, hovering between them, sketching out a swift, round shape. “Sheril plans to install a marble fountain right _there,_ sometime this July. Of course, there are fountains in the gardens… all of Greek make, or something. But Sheril was quite insistent we have one on the grounds as well.”

Neah laughed his odd, hoarse laugh. Allen forced a smile, eyes falling to his hands.

“It’s certainly a beautiful house,” he said, eyeing the shabby buckles of his own suitcase. A thread had come loose in the lining of his cotton gloves, unraveling them.

“A beautiful house, yes,” Neah agreed, rapping his cane against the back of the driver’s seat once, carriage slowing to a halt. “Fully-staffed, remarkably well-kept, polished to a shine — and you’ll have your very own suite.”

“How extravagant,” Allen said dully, taking in Neah’s words without truly processing them.

Servants, power, a wing of his own — he could scarcely imagine it. He’d never even had a _room_ of his own, let alone… all this. This vulgar display of wealth.

“You’ll be taken care of,” Neah went on, something steady in his tone, unreadable. “You should be quite pleased, really. With Mana’s bequest, you should be comfortably set for the remainder of your days.”

“I _am_ pleased,” Allen returned, more a knee-jerk reflex than a genuine response.

Neah sighed, rapping his cane against the carriage floor, the sound of it dull and muted.

“If I’m being honest, Allen — I learned to hate this place a long, long time ago,” he said. He turned his cheek towards the window, eyes locked on the house ahead. “That hatred will always be a part of me, I think. I hate the very stones that built this house — the money that commands it, the shadows living inside. I hate the silk and velvet on my back, though I wear them well all the same. I hate my servants, the maids who coddle and comfort me. I hate the way they never talk back, the way they endure whatever lashings I bother to concoct.”

“Then —”

“I hate this place,” Neah said. “But you don’t have to. Do you understand?” He scowled, expression making a flickering shift from nostalgic to peevish. “Mana wanted you taken care of. Let’s… let’s focus on that, shall we?”

Allen leaned forwards in his seat, extending a hand to touch the darkened window.

He tried to picture the Mana he knew descending the nacred steps ahead — his big, ridiculous smile, his rough hands, his eyes full of loving echoes. Half delirious, tossing unintelligible asides to invisible voices, dry lips twitching. A good man, Allen liked to think.

(Better to believe in the best of him than to face the worst of him.)

“Mana... lived here?” Allen asked, his trepidation fading slightly as curiosity slinked into his tone.

Neah studied Allen carefully, much like a naturalist might study a rare bird, or a blue-bodied scarab. His mouth pulled into a precarious little frown. It made him look younger.

“Our boyhood home,” he said. He lifted a gloved hand and pointed out beyond the house, into the wild, spiraling meadows beyond.  “We’d run far, far out into the brush, out to the big oak in the valley. Shit. We were like dogs, Mana and I. Bounding about in the mud, throwing sticks out into the swamp.” His eyes softened, lost in thought. “I remember… we used to sneak frogs and bugs into the house. Beetles and butterflies, especially — the brighter, the better. I’d pin then up against the corkboard and play scientist. You know, pull off their wings. Dissect them with mother’s best silverware. Oh, and naturally, Mana was my faithful assistant.”

Slowly, a smile hiked its way up onto his face. Allen liked this new smile more than the last, although not by much.

“We were scoundrels,” he surmised. He nodded firmly, having convinced himself, and rapped his cane against the carriage once more. “Well, _I_ was a scoundrel. Mana was a crybaby.”

Butterflies and beetles. Silverware, mud, boyhood bravery.

The past was a beautiful thing, if only because it was gone.

“The Mana I knew,” Allen said softly, twisting his fingers over his lap nervously, “hardly ever cried.”

He once told Allen his tears had all dried up; that he had nothing left to cry. But that wasn't for Neah to know.

It wasn't for anyone to know, save for Allen.

“Is that so?” Neah turned towards Allen, blinking somewhat owlishly. He ran his thumb over his fingertips, deliberating. “Well. That’s nice. I suppose one of us had to grow up eventually. It certainly wasn’t going to be me.”

Very crisply, he rapped the tip of his cane against the driver’s seat, and their chauffeur was scrambling down around the carriage to open the door for them.

“That’s nice,” Neah said again, mostly to himself. His eyes had misted over, glassy and very nearly opaque. Not on the verge of tears, no — but lost in his own head. He was, Allen supposed, scaling that treacherous glass tower of memory.

Allen turned his cheek into his hand. He pondered the manor; its untimeliness, its power, its sealike beauty.

Allen wanted to feel contempt for Neah. He wanted to hate Neah. He thought that might give him some relief; anger was an efficient ward against sadness, after all. A long-standing defense of his, anger. It was a lingering vestige of the boy he used to be; little Red, bruised and burned, wandering about backstage with his little hands drawn into useless fists. 

_Be angry, be righteous, don’t let it get to you. Make it so the world can never touch you._

It would’ve been nice if he could’ve gone back to being that boy.

And it would’ve been nice, very nice, to hate Neah.

But he didn’t. Not now, not with Mana woven through him so thoroughly.

For Neah’s haunted look, he instead felt a pang of empathy. A near kinship.

“You miss him just as much as I do, don’t you?” Allen asked.

Footsteps circling the carriage. The click of the latch.

“I’ll miss him someday,” Neah demurred. “For now, I’m simply furious. How dare he, Mr. Walker. How dare he.”

Ah.

So Lord Campbell himself had chosen the easy way out.

The black carriage door swung open, marrying darkness into light.

Beyond steely gates, the Campbell crest was beckoning.

 

(✽)

 

The foyer was enormous. Absurdly huge, really, and surprisingly empty, save for a row of Grecian statuary and a set of cushioned loveseats that Allen suspected were equally decorative.

The rest of the room — was populated only by space. Big and white and daunting. Too white. Allen suddenly felt hyperconscious of the mud on his shoes. He looked down at his feet, spying a glance at his heels.  Neah, however, strolled in quite blithely. He took his coat off and, out of nowhere, a servant appeared to take it away.

Gone as quick as he had come.

“I’ll have the tailor by later,” Neah said thoughtfully, rubbing a hand down his face. “Get you fitted for a new set of brogues.”

“My current pair… is a little past their prime,” Allen admitted, wiggling his toes against the tears in the sole.

“The same could be said for your coat. And your trousers. And that hideous shirt,” Neah said. Self-consciously, Allen plucked at his collar, pale and stiff and scratchy from one too many washes. “You look like you climbed out of the septic tank.”

“Thank you, sir,” Allen muttered, dry. “My signature look.”

He followed Neah from hall to hall uncertainly, barely paying attention to the route as he gaped at the walls. Portraits of dead Campbells stared down from every wall, their golden eyes frozen in rapt horror as they took Allen in.

A rat encroaching upon their ancestral home.

Detached, Neah said, “I’m sure you’ll be the talk of high society for months — once we have you cleaned up, that is. There’s nothing they love more than a bachelor with good money. Just keep smiling, and try not to discuss your true lineage. They may even come to love your scars.”

That genuinely caught Allen off-guard. His gaze flickered from the wall to Neah’s back, weaving through the manor with a familiar ease.

“You should know, every daughter of good pedigree will be sent to your doorstep sooner or later,” Neah looked back at Allen, mouth twitching into a strange little lemon-twist smile.  “I’ve evaded them thus far — more out of spite than anything. Now, I don’t suppose you left a girl back at the circus?”

“No,” Allen said. This was technically not a lie. “Nothing like that.”

“Good. It should make what comes next somewhat easier to bear.”

And what was that? _Marriage?_

Allen looked down at the floor. The pale ceramic tiles spread out beneath him, glassy and nearly opaque; he had the sensation of treading over an abyss.

“Ah,” Neah said, halting quite abruptly in his steps. “Now here’s someone I suppose you ought to meet.”

Allen lifted his head to realize they’d navigated their way to the manor’s dining hall.

The room was cramped by the presence of an absurdly long, lavish table. Curiously, it was also completely set for a meal; lined with gleaming white plates, silverware, napkins edged with crochet frill. Allen’s gaze swept down the table. A ceramic vase of bloodred begonias. A pot of piping hot tea. There was a white chiffon cake on a silvery tray, standing at attention in the middle of the table — dotted with glazed cherries, gleaming wet and red.

It was a beautiful cake, but it didn’t look much like food. It looked like a prop.

Though the table was set for maybe twenty partygoers, it was practically deserted. In fact, only one girl was seated there, and she didn’t seem bothered by this in the slightest.

She was a slim thing, maybe fourteen or so in age, and dwarfed by the enormous, high-backed chair she was sitting in. She was wearing a sweet little white party frock, a lavender ribbon wound about her pale neck. She had Neah’s same eyes, a small mouth, and unkempt hair she wore no longer than her chin.

“My, oh my,” she said, folding her small hands together. Her eyes landed on Allen. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Does that make me the cat?” Neah frowned.

She shrugged.

“There’s a certain feline quality to your posture, wouldn’t you say?”

“Nobody dragged me, I should add,” Allen added.

“Not yet,” she said.

Neah pinched the bridge of his nose, rolling his eyes.

“This is Allen Walker,” he said. “I told you about him, remember? Mana’s beneficiary?”

“I remember,” she said. There was a look of appraisal in her eyes — the way a pawn broker might appraise a fenced ruby, or a pilfered rifle. Like something to be bought, to be owned. “I didn’t think he’d be so good-looking.” Then, she smiled — her teeth flashed, brillantine white. “You’re very good-looking, you know. Even with that scar of yours.”

Somehow, that didn’t feel like a compliment. Allen hemmed and hawed, smiling uncertainly.

“Well, I — I do what I can.”

“It shows,” she agreed. Then, she batted her eyes, pulling her lips into a pout. “Allen Walker, sir, don’t you think I’m also very good-looking?”

Her lashes fell like a curtain over her cheeks, coquettish. Allen didn’t like this look, not at all.

“Don’t get any ideas, Road,” Neah interrupted, looking peeved. “He’s family.”

“Yes, but not by blood,” Road argued, shooting Neah a sharp look. Then, she glanced back to Allen, expression melting back to that same honeyed look. “I think I like you. You’ll marry me, won’t you? Once I get a little older?”

Allen blanched.

“Well,” he hedged, smile straining, “ah, that is—”

“Road,” Neah cut in. “That’s enough now. You’re abusing the poor man’s politeness. There’ll be no talk of marriage — not until Sheril’s six feet under, at the very least. I’m not interested in seeing the newest member of our little family served for brunch.”

Road grinned wickedly.

“He’d make a lovely meal.”

“This is my niece,” Neah said, turning to Allen. “Sheril’s daughter. A Kamelot by name, a Campbell by blood, and a sadist by choice. Take caution.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Road said, flat. Her eyes went flat, too; so did her milky face. “Beneficiary, hm. That’s an interesting word. It basically means you’re the heir to his fortune, right?”

“Something like that,” Allen hedged.

“How lucky for you,” she said, droll. She put her hands on top the table, leaning forwards on skinny elbows. She hoisted herself up, eyes dropping as she rose. Landing square on the rickety hinges of Allen’s suitcase, she asked, “Where’s the rest of your luggage?”

Neah cringed. Allen looked away. He had promised himself he wouldn’t be embarrassed by these people. He’d promised himself.

“Road, that _is_ his luggage,” Neah said. Allen thrust his chin towards the window, focusing his vision on the stucco detailing surrounding the white frame.

“I can see that, but where are the _rest_ of his things?”

“Those _are_ his things.”

Thankfully, Road seemed to lose interest in the topic. Lips curling with a breezy, honeyed sweetness, “How’d you come about that scar, Mr. Walker? Were you a soldier?”

“A childhood accident,” Allen said, which was mostly accurate.

“Was it very painful?”

Wasn’t that obvious?

“Only somewhat.” 

“It’s not so terrible a scar. If you’re lucky, you may start a new fashion.”

A fashion of mutilation, perhaps?

“I can’t recommend that,” Allen said, fiddling with the cuffs of his cotton gloves, the shift and tug of the fabric unsettling the burn tissue beneath. A less fashionable disfiguration, no doubt.

Neah hummed his assent.

“Don’t be so macabre, Road.”

“But scars have a ghastly charm to them, wouldn’t you say?” She argued coyly, batting her eyes. “Isn’t a battle-worn soldier all the more dashing for the proof of his chivalry?”

“I told you, I was never a soldier.”

“Semantics,” Road said, waving a dainty hand. Then, her darling little smile turned suspect. Eyes darting somewhere behind Allen’s head, she said, “Well, well. Speaking of _ghastly charm_. There goes our resident phantom.”

Neah frowned, and turned towards the hallway door. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, Allen followed his eyes.

At first, Allen wondered if this might be another Campbell — a suspicion that passed about as quickly as it came. After all, the man passing through looked too placid to be a Campbell; too plain. Missing was the shellacked, rumpled black hair that seemed to define the family. Instead, his hair was fair and pin-straight, secured fastidiously into a tight braid. It shifted against his neck and back like a second spine; immobile, thick, vertebrate.

Catching their eyes, he stalled between the door and the hall, hands in the pocket of his sober, gray overcoat. He looked at Neah, then at Road. His eyes stopped on Allen, perhaps confused. Allen couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t have been more thoroughly or more obviously out of place.

He nodded at the three of them, as though conducting business. It was a stern, austere sort of nod, but not inauspicious. Without really knowing why, Allen nodded back. 

“That was Mr. Link,” Road sighed once he turned the corner, retreating out of sight.

“Not a relative?” Allen hazarded, and Neah nodded.

“Link? No, no. He’s Mr. Malcolm Leverrier’s assistant.”

Road frowned. “I thought he was Leverrier’s son?”

“Oh, I very much doubt that’s the case.”

“Leverrier?” Allen asked, feeling increasingly lost.

“An important business associate to the Campbells,” Neah said. “I doubt you’ll meet him this summer — the man’s currently abroad in Berlin. Mr. Link is acting as his proxy in England at the moment.”

“I thought only soldiers wore their hair long?”

“As far as I know, Mr. Link is a soldier in only the war of personal finances.”

“That sounds very dull,” Road decided. Then, brightening considerably, “He’s good-looking, though. Even despite that stern brow. Is he a bachelor?”

Neah snorted. Actually _snorted._

“What, already giving up on Allen? That was fast.”

“I haven’t,” she insisted. She folded her hands over her heart, intent. Road explained very patiently, folding her hands over her heart. “I love Allen. Passionately. Madly.”

Neah looked unconvinced. He lifted his wrist, checking the ticking dial of his watch. “You’ve known him all of three minutes now.”

Road sniffed in ladylike offense.

“Matters of the heart are complex, uncle.  You would never understand.”

“And why not?”

“Because emotions,” Road recited, waving a finger between the both of them airily, “are like poison to you.”

“Ah,” Neah said. There was a beat. Neah looked up and down from his watch, considering his words. “Well,” he finally temporized, shooting Allen an expression that was somewhat wry, somewhat deadpan, “she’s not wrong.”

A stunning departure from character.

“No clever repartee?” Allen blinked, his surprise as mild as milk. “Why, Mr. Campbell, I’m truly shocked.”

“I know when I’m bested,” Neah shrugged. He peeled his black gloves from his fingers, slapping them down against the table with an uncharacteristically thoughtful glaze to his eyes. “You know, Allen, I think I’ll arrange you an appointment with Mr. Link.”

Allen’s wide eyes puzzled into a frown.

“What? Why?”

“You inherited quite a few business assets from Mana,” Neah explained, straightening up to his full, unimpressive height, “and that means paperwork. I’m sure he’d be willing to guide you through it — that man is frighteningly efficient.”

He thought of Mr. Link’s banker-black suit, his expression of cool, unbiased assessment. Mr. Link’s solemn, bussinesslike nod. Paperwork, assets, meetings with men of power. Something painfully heavy and tight lodged itself in the back of Allen’s throat. He glanced down to the floor, then to his shoes, the weathered sole still flecked with mud and grime.

“Business assets?” Allen repeated. He let out a breathless, desperate little laugh. It was an ugly laugh. A poor man’s wince. He knew how to juggle, how to dance like a Tatar, about a million different card tricks, and all about making love. But _business_ —  “I don’t know anything about business.”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Neah said. Allen’s face must have betrayed his doubt, because he continued to press. “No, really. You may own several companies in name, but you don’t have to participate in their administration beyond the level you’re most comfortable with. Think of it as passive revenue — ah,” he massaged his temples wearily as Allen stared with a blank look of discomfort. “Just... rest easy. Mr. Link will explain it all.”

“Yes, by all means, let Mr. Link take care of everything,” Road agreed, looking vaguely entertained. “I, for one, am immeasurably soothed by a handsome face.” 

Had Mr. Link been handsome? Allen pressed himself to remember, but only came up with the lingering image of his slate-gray overcoat.

“He looked quite ordinary to me,” Allen offered, brows knitting together.

Road nodded quite sagely. 

“From a distance, sure, he’s a rather _tame_ specimen. But up close — you can tell his features are very fine, very dashing. And he’s in _very_ good health.”

Was that a euphemism? It rather sounded like a euphemism.

“Up close?” Neah looked at Road in disapproval. “When have _you_ been up close to Mr. Link?”

She folded her arms staunchly.

“I seize whatever opportunities I can.”

“... I’m sure Mr. Link would prefer you kept your distance.”

“Lest I tempt him with my beauty and charm?”

She fluttered her lashes, thick and powder black and butterfly-soft. Neah scoffed, forever unmoved.

“Charm? What charm? You’re a terror, nothing more.”

“How rude.” Road turned on her heels, her chiffon underskirt following the motion to whip against her skinny knees. “You don’t think me a terror, do you, Mr. Walker?”

“Of course not,” Allen said, terrorized.

This was, naturally, the answer she’d been looking for. Pleased with him, she lifted her chin, all doe-eyed and dreamy, tiny mouth pursed into the slightest, pinkest of pouts. Very charming. Too charming. In ten years time, she’d be genuinely dangerous to men. She’d snare hearts like live rabbits; she would skin them into coats.

Good for her.

“I think we’ve wasted enough time,” Neah said. “From here on — I suppose I should escort you to your appointments?”

“You’re not going to introduce him to Father?” Road asked. Neah shook his head.

“As things currently stand, Sheril isn’t terribly interested in Allen. Let’s keep it that way.”

“What about Tyki—”

“I’d have to _find_ him, first. Waste of time and resources. I’m sure we’ll see him at dinner.”

“Your family really is something, isn’t it?” Allen said, holding himself as politely as a butler, hands clasped one over the other. He used his voice as carefully as a show-girl used her last good pair of stockings.

Road giggled with a secret merriment.Neah, on the other hand, looked vaguely irritated. He seemed to be the only one who realized Allen had been insulting them. He also looked somewhat inclined to agree.

“Something,” he agreed, his too-bright eyes rounding and flashing wall-to-wall. “Us Campbells, we’re something else altogether.”

  
  
(✽)

 

 

Allen’s suite, hidden behind behind French doors along a smooth, red-flagged path, was larger than every other room he’d lived in combined. Too large, Allen thought, setting his suitcase against the carpet so he could inspect the vestibule. The ceiling was too high. The doors were too tall. He felt like a banged-up miniature in a little girl’s dollhouse.

The parlour was grand and sunny, paneled with large windows, full-length mirrors all over the place. At the center of the room, surrounded by a tray of likely unusable teaware and champagne buckets, was an ivory loveseat, seated proudly atop a white carpet that filled the room like a sheet of snow. It looked terribly expensive, this chaise. It also looked plain terrible. The white made the ivory look dirty and the ivory made the white look bled out.

“I’m going to destroy this place, aren’t I?” Allen mumbled, suppressing a laugh. One spilled glass, and the carpet would be stained beyond salvaging. Somehow, the thought cheered him up. It cheered him up a lot. He wandered further in; he found his bed.

It was a big, imperial four poster bed — the type surrounded by curtains. The curtains were gold and had a somewhat lustrous sheen to them, like taffeta. He whipped them back and forth for a bit, like a child.

This was Mana’s gift. His gift to Allen.

It was a gorgeous, beautiful gift, generous beyond words.

He’d never asked for it.

He didn’t understand it.

He didn’t want it.

He dragged his suitcase into the bedroom, struggling with the worn clasps to open it wide. He cast his clothes aside — they’d likely be thrown away, regardless of his opinion. That was fine. He didn’t care what happened to them. His books too could be confiscated and burned. They could boil his shoes; throw his travel papers into the furnace.

Only one thing in that suitcase truly mattered; a brown paper envelope, no larger than a teabox.

There were three things inside.

A black hairpin, crested by a blue bead.

A satin ribbon, once dusty pink, now faded to nearly beige.

A thin stack of photographs.

Allen took the photographs, leaving the ribbon and hairpin. He rolled the envelope up carefully, tucking it carefully beneath a pillow before returning to the task at hand. He settled down in bed — the softest thing he’d ever felt — and turned the daguerreotypes over in his hands.

He must have stared at them a thousand times by now. The woman in the black gown. An oak tree, its limbs reaching angrily into the sky. A family photo — grim as a funeral procession. And then, curiously, an angular shot of two boys, covered in mud. They were glancing up at the lens with twin expressions of wild surprise. The image was hazy, poorly developed. One boy was skinny and frightened-looking. He had long hair and knobby knees. The other boy was rumpled, crouching somewhat aggressively, his soft face and noble chin blurred by boyish indignation.

Allen turned the photograph over to read its inscription.

_Neah and I, August 1872 (?). An incurably unruly child. I wonder if he hates me even now._

_Oh, Mana,_ Allen thought. He did not know what to say; what to feel. Something was burning the heart right out of him, darker than love, deeper than grief. He wanted to find Mana, to seek him out and correct him — you were wrong, Mana. Neah loved you, I know it. How could you leave him? And what about me? All this splendour, all this gilding — surely you knew I only ever wanted a father?

He grasped for tears, but they did not come. He’d been emptied. Wrung-out like an old washcloth. So, he rolled onto his back, holding Mana’s words to his chest.

He could feel the pressure rising against the window; the wind in the foothills sending a minute rattle through the windows.

It was going to rain soon.

 

(✽)

 

The hours oozed by like honey, warm and wet, slow and indolent.

Allen explored. Found a big library. Read ten pages of Common Sense by Thomas Payne before losing interest. He’d never been very political. It would be a tragedy to start now.

He went hall-to-hall, steps sounding loudly against the tiled floor. He gaped at the paintings on the walls. The paintings gaped back, contemptuous. Allen scanned each face without rancor. He was searching them. Searching for the woman in black. A boy with long hair. Something familiar.

He was wandering through a dream, but it was someone else’s dream, not his.

At around five o’clock, a servant found him. He approached Allen with slow, wary steps. A set indifferent smile on his face, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dinner jacket, both thumbnails glistening outside. Allen allowed himself to be shepherded to the dining hall. He felt he’d been shepherded quite a lot lately. He didn’t mind too terribly. Piloting his own body seemed like an insurmountable responsibility. He didn’t feel he was in the right mind to do it.

There was a dinner; buttered potatoes, baked cod and summer spices, seasoned vegetables, roast goose with apple and herbs. Allen ate far too much and drank as little as possible — Tyki, Sheril’s raffish younger brother, kept trying to tempt wine into Allen. Almond and date palmiers. Stilted conversation, Neah’s expression alternating between irritated and concerned.

Allen’s first day as a noble, and he hardly knew what to do with himself.

Perhaps he’d adopt a dog. Take up taxidermy. Swagger into London, attend the opera. Host salons, like Marie Antoinette.

Live here. Die here.

Pay penance.

The rain came down at ten o’clock. He fell asleep quickly, rolled up in his new sheets. They were cool and soft; a perfect salve for the low, simmering heat of the day.

He felt protected, at least in some superficial sense, from the storm beyond.

 

 

_ROSE DOOR_

II

 

 

“How do you feel about ruffles?” Johnny asked, glancing up at Allen with a frightening glint in his eye.

“No,” Allen said automatically. He tugged insistently at the turnover of the thick collared-shirt Johnny had picked out for him. The fabric was shockingly white, smooth, fine, and somewhat stiff. Unnervingly stiff. So stiff that the collar stuck upright, immobile, where it might have otherwise flopped over his shoulders.

Somehow, Allen had expected finery to be a tad more comfortable. Silky, even. Like japonaiserie.

Instead, he could feel a slow chafe rubbing its way into the back of his neck.

“No ruffles,” he decided eventually. He smoothed his hands down over his lapels. “I’m not a _pirate.”_

“But frilled sleeves are making a comeback,” Johnny wheedled, looking somewhat disappointed. “They’re very fashionable! Very French. “

“I don’t want to look French,” Allen protested. He shook his sleeve out, defiant. “I’m barely invested in looking English.”

“Huh,” Johnny said. His mouth pulled into a sad, sad look. Sad enough that Allen was quite tempted to bite the bullet and go for ruffles. “What about a cravat?”

Allen liked Johnny. He liked him very much, actually. It was a decision he’d come to very quickly — Johnny was the first servant who’d introduced himself to Allen by name. He was _Mr. Neah Campbell’s personal tailor, sir_ , curly-haired and earnest, obviously skilled but hamstrung by his pink, cherubic babyface. He claimed to be 26, but Allen scarcely believed him. He still had spots. Spots and big, saucer-wide eyes.

“Perhaps we could just stick with an ordinary necktie?” Allen cracked a smile, apologetic. “I’m not looking for anything too lavish — I attract far too much attention as it is.”

Johnny hummed, a swatch of fabric held in both hands.

“Your features are… unique,” Johnny agreed vaguely. Then, he startled. “”Oh — I didn’t mean that to offend, sir.”

“No offense taken,” Allen said, about as kindly as he could manage. “I mean… I know I’m strange-looking. I take that to be an objective truth.”

“Well…” Johnny stalled, looking somewhat surprised. His nose wrinkled up, eyebrows furrowed — he was choosing his words very carefully. “You do look little strange, yes. Still, that’s not necessarily a bad thing, is it? You look storied. You look rare.”

Allen let out a laugh.

“But do I look like a noble?”

“No,” Johnny admitted, plain. A gleam in his hazel-brown eyes. “But you will once I’m done with you!”

Cheerful as sin, Johnny pulled a long, dandy frock coat from out of his trunk. Allen shuddered, backing away reflexively.

The horror.

“I’m begging you,” Allen said, negotiating rather  desperately now. “Simple and professional, please? I have an appointment with Mr. Link later today… I don’t want to look like a fool. I mean… obviously, I _am_ a fool, but he doesn’t have to know it.”

“Mr. Link?” Johnny repeated. He frowned, lowering the coat back into his trunk. He seemed to be taking this into real consideration. “He’s Mr. Leverrier’s son or something, isn’t he?”

“No,” Allen said impulsively. Then, thinking it over, he amended himself. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything about him.”

“I mean… I’ve seen him around sometimes. He always looks so awfully serious. It’s intimidating.” Johnny’s nose scrunched up, eyes fogged over in recollection. “He’s the assistant to Malcolm Leverrier — an fancy, important businessman with important trade ties to the Campbells. Filthy rich too, naturally. And quite the patrician _._ He’s in Brussels right now, or something.” Johnny looked down into his trunk with a childlike mournfulness, plucking sadly at his measuring tape. “I wish I could explore the capitals of Europe. I bet Brussels is lovely this time of year.”

“So… they’re merchants?” Allen hazharded.

“Well, merchants buy and sell goods,” Johnny said. “Businessmen buy and sell stores. Or entire industries, if you’re as powerful as Leverrier.”

“That sounds like quite the headache,” Allen said. He toed out of his new shoes carefully and went to sit on the divan. “Is Mr. Link staying in town?”

“Oh, no. He’s much too important for that. He’s staying in the Leverrier estate — about twenty minutes from here by carriage, I reckon. I hear it’s pretty lavish.”

It seemed the English countryside was infested with wealth. How magnanimous of them, leaving the poor rats to their filthy cities. 

“I bet you’d look good in a velvet smoking jacket,” Johnny said. He went rummaging through his trunk again. “If I fitted you for one, would you wear it?”

“I might,” Allen said, which meant _no._

“How about a tail-coated dinner jacket?”

“We’ll see,” Allen said, which meant _definitely no._

“Well, what do you want?” Johnny asked, pouting. Allen grinned, a glimmer of his old mischief returning.

“A silk kimono,” he said, curled up like a cat, “and a thousand pairs of fancy gloves.”

Johnny huffed. He really was like a little boy, at times. It was sort of precious. Perhaps Allen would have a friend here after all.

That was a reassurance.

 

(✽)

 

Come quarter to noon, there was a knock on the door.

A firm double-knock, to be precise, slow and heavy. Not the timid, gentle knock of a servant who was about to let himself in anyhow. It was a marvelous sound, Allen thought. A grand sound.

Dressed like a lord, feeling like an imposter, Allen opened up.

Mr. Link, his given name still a mystery, was standing in the doorframe. Allen pressed forwards, curious of him. He was wearing that same gray overcoat. It made him look as solemn as an undertaker. 

“Good morning,” he said. His voice was low and crisp, like he intended to cross-examine Allen. “I hope I’m not interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Allen said, holding the door open a little wider. He chewed over his words for a minute, then rushed to say, “I’m relieved you could make it. I have no head for business, you know.”

“Few people do,” Link said. He might have been trying to reassure Allen; it was hard to tell. His eyes were wandering over Allen’s face, zig-zagging their way back to his scar every so often. “Not everyone has a talent for dull, tedious work.”

That surprised a little laugh out of Allen.

“But you do?”

“I do,” Link said, quite firmly.

“That’s quite the curse, sir.”

“My burden to bear,” Link agreed, an undertone of wan, dry humour in his tone. Deciding he liked Link,  Allen hummed, allowing himself to appreciate Link anew.

Road was right, he realized. Link _was_ handsome. You really did need to be up close to see it — it was a very subtle sort of thing. Something about his cheekbones, his fine lips, his hot dark eyes. His skin was smooth and pale, his shoulders strong, and he moved like someone with very sound muscles. Was this perhaps that Road had meant by _very good health?_

Allen fidgeted his hands, feeling increasingly self-conscious. If Link noticed the awkwardness, he didn’t say anything.

Licking his lips, Allen hazharded, “Should — should I call for a pot of tea?” _Call for a pot of tea._ The words felt ridiculous coming from his own mouth. He looked down his hands, forcing a smile. “I’ve never actually _called_ for anything before. Do you think I could fetch one myself, or would they throw me out of the kitchen first?”

“I’m sure the cook would be properly baffled,” Link said gently.

“Oh,” Allen said, dissatisfied. “Well… I have a pitcher of water somewhere. And… a bucket of ice…”

Should he offer Link a drink? They’d stocked his suite with champagne, dry gin, cordial and bourbon. Granted, it was still very early, but Neah certainly didn’t seem to have any qualm with drinking his breakfast out of a bottle. Perhaps that was standard upper-class behaviour.

“I don’t need anything,” Link cut in, firm but kind, sparing Allen any further embarrassment. Allen nodded. Pretended the situation was natural.

He liked pretending.

Feeling put-upon by Link’s flat, expectant stare, he looked down. His eyes landed somewhere at Link’s wrist and followed the way down to Link’s uncovered, ungloved hands. His hands were surprisingly broad and slightly reddened, with long fingers and slightly chipped nails.

The hands of a peasant, Allen thought. That ignited a spark of delight in him. He wasn’t sure why.

“That isn’t all for me, is it?” Allen asked, suddenly taking notice of the thick leatherbound ledger Link was carrying. It was filled to the brim with paper, nearly bursting at the seams. Allen poked at the spine hesitantly. Link grimaced.

“Some of it is.”

Allen stared him down.

“Some of it?”

“Most of it,” Link admitted. He shuffled the ledger in his arms. “You, Mr. Walker, are currently witnessing a backlog of approximately ten years of business. And these are only the highlights. Of course, I doubt expect you to read all of them—”

“I hope to read very few of them,” Allen said, intending to read none of them.

“— But I will require your signature. In several places.”

Allen sighed.

“Why do I feel like I’m making a deal with the devil?”

“I am not the devil,” Link said.

“No, of course not. You’re only his assistant.”

Link looked a little miffed at that. Not much a sense of humour, then. Noted.

Apparently, you could get away with just about any personality, provided you were rich and handsome.

“I’m surprised to hear Mana held so many assets in his name,” Allen commented, changing tracks abruptly. “I thought someone else would’ve claimed them. Repossessed them. I mean… Mana left his family. For over ten years.”

“Sheril Kamelot tried, many times,” Link said. His jaw twitched, eyebrows furrowing into something very much like exasperation. “He was ultimately unsuccessful. I’m sure Neah played a role in keeping so much of Mana’s fortune intact — though I couldn’t tell you why.”

“Ah,” Allen said. He looked down to his shoes. “I expect… I expect he was hoping Mana might come back.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” Link said. He looked away. He seemed to understand he’d touched on something sensitive. That was good. He’d have to be an idiot not to realize, and for all his fairweather smiles, Allen had no patience for idiots.

“Well,” Allen said, as plainly as he could manage. “I suppose… it was all for nothing, in the end.”

Mana never came back.

Inherited the family mantle at eighteen. Ran away at 25. Joined the goddamn circus, clawed through madness for 18 years.

Sent a letter declaring his intent to have Allen inherit.

Hung himself off the hotel rafters.

Allen would never forget the way his body had been staged — dangling from above like a Christmas angel, neck tilted at an odd angle, his slaty, stone-dark eyes staring nowherenowherenowhere. He'd looked like Petrushka, hanging from his strings.

Mana’s greatest trick.

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” Link said carefully, and Allen lifted his eyes. Link’s expression was warm, if somewhat trepidatious — like he wanted to help Allen but didn’t know how. Something in Allen’s heart startled, then softened. He didn’t know how Link could help him, either. He didn’t know how he could even help himself. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Allen agreed softly. He smiled. It was easy to smile. Easier than he might have thought. “Somehow, I’m here." 

“That’s what matters,” Link said. His arm twitched; he might have put a hand on Allen’s shoulder had he not been carrying the ledger. Allen decided wouldn’t have minded that. Link’s hands looked quite warm. Pleasant hands, like the hands of a farmer or a painter or a father.

“We should probably get started,” Allen said, looking away. “Dull, tedious work is seldom accomplished quickly.”

Link hummed, low and even.

“You aren’t wrong.”

They settled on the divan, Link’s ledger spread out carefully over his lap. Allen fished for a clipboard and a pen — he found a fine, lavish fountain pen embossed with a stranger’s initials. Allen sat with his knees tucked up beneath his body as he plowed through signature after signature, only half-paying attention to Link’s slow, laborious explanations.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea to update some of your current administration,” Link commented, turning what felt like the millionth sheet of paper into Allen’s gloved hands. “I could connect your empire to a few of my contacts — investors and trustees in good standing.”

“Sure,” Allens said. He lifted his pen, eyes skipping down towards the bottom of the page. “Excellent. Fantastic. Where do I sign?”

“Right there,” Link pointed. Allen signed, his script sloppy and haphazard. Link stole the sheet away, quickly replacing it with a new one. “This one concerns an ongoing commitment to a Canadian logging venture. It might be in your best interests to sell your shares in this particular venture — I can’t imagine it’ll be profitable much longer. I’ve provided the necessary paperwork, but the choice is yours.”

Allen stared down at the paper and pretended to read it. He nodded, hand on his chin.

“Mm. Yes. Quite. Sounds about right. Where do I sign?”

Link turned the page for Allen, waiting patiently as Allen signed, his pen scratching over the clipboard quietly.

“As for your holdings in India—”

Allen’s eyebrows shot up.

“I have holdings in _India?”_

“Yes — several, actually,” Link nodded. “Oh, perhaps some political context is required — one moment, I have a chart and timeline stored about here somewhere. I can probably condense this lecture into a smooth half hour if we brush past the finer details—”

_A half hour?_

Ever the professional, Link went digging about through his paperwork. Horrified, Allen raised his hands in surrender.

“Please, no — Mr. Link, this is ghastly,” he interrupted, positively distraught.  “Stop, I beg of you.”

Link frowned.

“I’m only trying to be as transparent as possible,” he said, still thumbing through his paperwork undeterred. “Don’t you want to know what, exactly, you’re signing your name to?”

“Not really, no,” Allen said. Then, blurting it out before he could really stop himself, “Why don’t you just handle everything?”

Link looked up from his paperwork. At first, Allen wondered if he ought to be bracing himself for a scolding. Link looked like a talented scold, after all. Something about the stern brow and sharp waistcoat. Then, his eyes were drawn to Link’s shoulders. They were shaking, ever minutely — a tremble of rage?

Wrong. Link was laughing. Very quietly, almost silently.

“Everything?” He said, mouth twisting into a faint, restrained smile. “That doesn’t seem a little absurd to you?”

“It seems very reasonable, actually,” Allen argued, stubborn. “I told you before — I have no head for business. I’m not interested in developing one, either.”

“It’s your fortune,” Link argued. He closed his ledgerman over his lap, folding his hands together. “You really don’t want to be involved in its upkeep?”

“Not at all,” Allen said breezily. He crossed his arms; an act of petty defiance. “I’d rather die than waste my days in a big, fancy office, counting pennies and writing stern letters.”

Link frowned. He had a marvellous frown, extraordinary well-rehearsed; it seemed to be a muscle he flexed often and without reservation.

“Well, then,” he said loftily. “How would _you_ like to waste your days?”

“A good question,” Allen grimaced. There was a beat of silence; Allen bounced his knee up and down, adjusting the too-white, too-stiff collar of his shirt. He thought back to the hours upon hours he’d spent wandering the manor; its vast library, its fastidiously-arranged teatime parlous, the tepid heat of the greenhouse, a long-abandoned croquet field. “Tell me, Link,” he said, folding his fingers together delicately. “What do wealthy people do with themselves?”

“They paint,” Link said, voice low and flat. He was sitting as calmly and as patiently as a heron, hands on his lap. “They sew. They drink tea. They gossip.”

Allen’s masculinity took a minute hit at the suggestion.

“I’m not a housewife,” he pointed out.

Link’s eyes sparkled with quiet amusement. Really, actually sparkled.

“Well, I spend my days working. I’m in the minority, however. Let me see —” He put a hand on his chin, framing the fine point of his chin as he thought. “I suppose you could always take up reading,” he suggested. “Or hunting?”

“Hunting?” Allen repeated, leaning back in his seat, eyes wide. Link nodded amicably, setting his ledger aside once and for all.

“This _is_ the season for waterfowl, I believe.”

“Huh,” Allen said. He dropped his cheek against his palm. He tried to picture himself traipsing the countryside in boots breeches, shooting ducks out of their ponds. “Do _you_ hunt?”

“No,” Link gave Allen a very clean, very prim smile. “I don’t mind rifling, however.”

“Rifling? As in shooting targets?” Allen asked, lifting his hands to mime the act of aiming a gun. When Link nodded, bemused, he pressed, “Are you any good?”

“I’m decent,” Link said plainly, which could’ve meant anything in between _I’m god-awful_ and _I’m the best shot on the fucking planet._ “Like anything else, it takes some practice.”

“And you’ve had practice?” He pictured Link disassembling an old-fashioned rifle, inspecting its magazine, suspending a black pellet between brown leather-clad fingers. Reassembling. Taking aim. In Allen’s imagination, there was an easy, somewhat military fluidity to each action. He felt a wicked smile rise to his face at the thought. “Is it possible you really _were_ a soldier?”

“A soldier?” Link frowned. “Who told you that?”

“A demon in a party dress.”

“Lady Road,” Link sighed. “The young mistress does love to spread gossip.”

“She finds your face quite charming, and your long hair to be suspect.” Allen leaned forwards,  conspiratorial smile playing loose and fast over his lips. “It is a somewhat… _gallant_ look for a professional.”

“Gallant?” Link frowned as though insulted. He reached over and pulled his braid over his shoulder, toying with the end of it. “I suppose it’s gotten quite long,” he said thoughtfully, his heavy brows furrowing into a stern little frown. “Perhaps too long. I wouldn’t want to appear unprofessional.”

“Oh, don’t you dare cut it,” Allen smiled. “It’d be a sin against God.”

Link dropped his braid against his shoulder and huffed, pink-faced.

“I’m not Samson, you know.”

“But you’re a hero all the same,” Allen agreed warmly. “My hero, that is. Blonde locks flowing brilliantly in the wind as you rescue me from the administrative legwork of my inheritance.”

Link’s lips twitched.

“Am I riding in on a shining steed?”

“A unicorn, to be precise.”

“You have quite the imagination,” Link said, drolly unimpressed. “Perhaps you have a future in fiction?”

“Pass,” Allen said, wrinkling his nose. “My prose is hideous, and my penmanship is even worse.”

“That much I noticed.”

Quite the acerbic tongue on this one. Allen decided he rather liked it.

“You’re not so bad, Mr. Link,” Allen said, very firm and very temperate. He paused, smoothing his hands down over the legs of his trousers. “You know. For a bureaucrat.”

Link’s lips twitched into a smile. A real, actual smile. It even reached his eyes; ruddy brown lifting into a sun-warmed shade.

He turned towards Allen, bent at the waist. he had a particular way of holding himself; a carriage and a character. Ramrod back, stiff at the hips — but a delicate, gentle placing to his hands. Like he was drawing shapes in the air.

Allen could smell his aftershave, hot and dark, smoke and musk and new-minted money.

It was a gorgeous scent. A beautiful scent. It was inspiring terrible, terrible thoughts in him; most dangerously, the thought of edging closer.

“There are worse things,” Link said very loftily, “than being a bureaucrat.”

“Like being a bastard?”

“Like being a bastard,” he agreed. Then — as quickly as he’s drawn near — he began to retreat. He pulled his ledger up into his arms and stood to his full height. It occurred to Allen then that Link wasn’t very tall. In fact, he was probably only taller than Allen by a handful of inches. “Let’s finish this some other time, shall we?”

Allen tossed between relief and disappointment. Settling on the former, he fixed Link with a wan, impersonal smile.

“Alright,” he agreed, flexing his dominant right hand warily. “It’s probably for the best. I was beginning to cramp, you know.”

“We certainly can’t have that,” Link said, still smiling, and he was handsome when he was happy. Clean and proud and everything Allen liked in a man – it was a pity, really, that he was meant to behave himself here.

“I’ll be seeing you, sir,” Allen said softly. He looked down at his hands, wound neatly over his lap.

Link nodded.

“Likewise, Mr. Walker.”

Allen just kept looking at his hands.

He listened to the sound of Link’s brogues padding quietly across the mahogany floor, and only lifted his head at the sound of the door clicking shut.

It occurred to him, right then, that he hadn’t thought to ask Link for his given name. He frowned, troubled. He’d really meant to do that.

Ah, well. In the end, what did it matter? It was probably William.

Every other man in this fucking country was named _William._

 

(✽)

 

The days bled into one another; signing paperwork without reading it, periodic meetings, extravagant dinners with a family he barely knew. And Allen explored. On his own, hunting through the house, he explored the places Mana had been.

He was a spy, a schism, a seeker — all those beautiful s-words and more, searching, _scouring,_ upending the house for some tangible proof of Mana’s life.

With some guidance from Road, he found Mana and Neah’s childhood bedroom. Though it had since been repurposed into a drawing room, the transition had clearly been slapdash; it looked more like a glorified storage room than a guest parlour. An antique graveyard. While navigating his way to the center of the room, Allen wove past a full set of ancient lounge furniture, a writing desk, three unlit lamps, and a gold-leaf tea set half-consumed by dust 

An intentional obfuscation, but not a particularly clever one. Allen found the truth regardless. It came in the form of two parallel lines, etched into the aging wood of an old closet door.  

_Mana and Neah, aged 8._

There was proof of Mana everywhere, if you knew where to look. Chipped tiles in the kitchen. Little scrapes in damask wallpaper. Mana’s books — his living record — still slumbered in the library. Some had their spines torn out. Some were all but untouched. Some were lovingly preserved, well-thumbed but still intact, forever marked with a careful inscription on the front jacket _— Property of Mana D. Campbell._

Relics of a time nearly lost to memory.

Nearly, but not completely.

There was still Neah. Elusive, cryptic, uncivil and unhelpful by nature

Mana’s brother. 

“Do you know where Neah is?” Allen asked, coming up slowly up to where Road was sitting.

She was sitting alone, like the first time they’d met, among a fantastic, sumptuous breakfast spread. Most of the hot food seemed to have already gone cold. Road didn’t seem to mind at all. She was buttering a thick, crusty slice of bread up, inoffensively absorbed in the task.

Allen steeled himself. Road was a girl worth being careful around, especially when she was handling a knife.

Thankfully, Road didn’t seem terribly interested in tearing out Allen’s jugular. So far. At the sound of Allen’s voice, she slowly lifted her eyes, lashes raising like a curtain from the pale slope of her cheekbones. She was slathering marmalade rather thickly over her bread, smothering it.

“Have you checked his office?” She asked, her voice small and innocent and girlish.

“I did.”

“Well, there’s your first mistake,” Road chastised, dipping her knife back into the jam jar to heap out another helping of marmalade. It shimmered against the silverware, gelatinous, soluble. “He’s never in his office.”

“Good to know,” Allen said, dry.

“Well, where else have you looked?”

“His apartments,” Allen said. Road shook her head very slowly. She was wearing a very pretty, very grown-up set of pearls. They clattered quietly whenever she moved.

“Neah wakes quite early. I’m certain you missed him.”

“The library,” he continued, ignoring Road’s airy tone of condescension.

“Neah’s not a literary man. Poor judgement.”

“The greenhouse,” Allen said, now growing impatient.

“Neah has no particular fondness for flowers. Surely you could intuit as much. Besides, no one uses the greenhouse.”

“The moon,” Allen said, blunt. “I checked the moon.”

“... And you didn’t find him there? Really? How odd.”

“Road, do you know where he might be?” Allen folded his arms.

Road smiled, pleased as a plum. She put her bread down, uneaten, and reached ahead into a lukewarm bowl of fruit — picking a blueberry and popping it innocently into her mouth.

“If I were you,” she said, licking her lips, “I’d check the chapel.”

Allen raised an eyebrow.

“I didn’t realize Neah was a _pious_ man.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Road giggled, lifting a hand over her mouth coyly — she was wearing a pair of white, lacy gloves, the edges trimmed with rose. “That man hasn’t a stitch of faith in him.” She smiled, slow and secretive. A woman’s smile. “But there’s a grand piano in the chapel. Neah likes to play when he’s in a mood.”

“He must play often,” Allen said.

“Oh, he does,” she agreed, wry and unexpectedly warm. She reached for a strawberry, turning the red bud of it over in her hands slowly. “But he’s a _brilliant_ composer.”

“A composer?” Allen repeated. He frowned, straining to conjure a mental image. Neah, vampirically regal in his black peacoat, hunched over a grand piano. Plucking away at its ivory keys, sketching notes out into an empty sheet. The faraway look of a musician. That had been Mana’s look, too —  always so far away, always hidden behind some veil Allen couldn’t part.

“That’s… I suppose that makes sense,” he said at length, worrying at his lower lip. Then, before he could stop himself, the truth came spilling out.  “Mana played too, you. Not often, of course, and hardly ever for me, but — well. Every now and then, after a couple of drinks, he’d play me something. Just a melody here and there.”

The trilling wisp of an imaginary concerto. A lullaby in the dark. Something you could hum a few bars to, but never sing _. My God, I’m so terribly out of practice, Allen! My brother would be appalled. Still, I’ll bet I can at least teach you a few chords. Would you like that?_

“They took lessons together when they were young,” Road said, looking down at her food. A rare moment of solemnity. “Mana and Neah, that is. Not that Neah talks about it very often.”

Allen looked away, feigning interest in the ornate tablecloth.

“He seems… to feel complicatedly about Mana,” he murmured.

Road hummed.

“Family is complicated,” she said. “Pain is complicated. Grief is complicated.”

Then, unsatisfied by her own response, she let out a breathy little sigh. She focused her gaze on the little strawberry between her fingers. Sadistically, she twisted the stem off the end and threw it away, bringing the berry between her teeth and biting down. She chewed as slowly and carefully as a rabbit.

“He’ll sort himself out eventually,” she decided, firm and wholehearted and certain. She folded her hands together over the table, smoothing down over a crease in the cloth. She was smiling. Smiling seemed to come quite naturally to her, even with a heavy heart. She and Allen were alike in that regard. “He just needs to write a few terrible concertos.”

Allen wondered what it would take to sort himself out. He wondered how many concertos it would take, and he wondered what they might sound like.  How many strings and how many woodwinds, exactly, would it take to lull him away from the view of Mana’s blue, hanging feet?

“Thank you, Road,” he said courteously, bowing his head in her direction. “I’m truly grateful.”

Her smile widened, its warm, womanish maturity fading in an instant. She batted her lashes, baring her little white teeth.

“Grateful enough to marry me, sir?” She asked, shooting Allen a loaded look. She probably meant for it to come off as imploring, perhaps even alluring. Instead, she just looked like a fool. She was only ever a fool to Allen — a charming, quaint little fool who didn’t yet know her own power.

Allen laughed quietly, reaching to steal Road’s jam-soaked bread off her plate.

“Let’s table that conversation for another day, shall we?” He gave her a mild, auspicious smile, and bit into her bread. His mouth was filled with the sweet tang of oranges. It was an oddly comforting flavour; he savoured it with his eyes shut.

“Wretch,” Road sighed, her tone impossibly fond.

Allen stuck out his tongue and went in for a blackberry.

 

(✽)

 

So, Allen pushed into the chapel for the very first time.

(If he was being honest with himself, it would likely be the last, too.)

The aisles were dim and dank, heavy with the scent of aging wood. The air was thick with dust. There was a tall, stained-glass window at the end of the room; a bizarrely out-of-place suggestion of wealth. Flanked by a heavy wooden frame, it depicted the traditional Catholic pieta. It was a mesmerizing, if somewhat grim work of art, dappled in candylike blues and reds. 

A single golden tear tracked its way down the Virgin Mary’s face. She was crying, crying for her child.

That, or it was starting to rain.

He could make out Neah's back from across the room, hunched over the piano bench. He was playing. Playing an ave, some kind of hymn. His music filled the chamber, keen and dark and curiously intent.

He didn't so much as lift his head as Allen came in.

He just kept playing, hands travelling across the keys.

Instead of approaching Neah immediately, Allen went towards the window. The chapel had to be the highest point of Campbell Manor. He could see the whole countryside below, its peaks and valleys ever so slightly distorted through the lurid, glassy lens of the windowpane .

He could see the Campbell greenhouse just below.

He imagined what his body would sound like, slamming against the glass.

What it would look like. What would break.

“Do you hold mass here?” Allen asked.

“No,” Neah said. He was playing something entirely different, now, having abandoned his previous composition — in frustration? Allen actually recognized what he was playing now. It was a _ballade_ composed by Gabriel Faure. Melodically complex. It snapped Allen away from the window and back to reality 

“Why not?”

He edged closer to the piano, hoping to catch Neah’s eye. Neah didn’t look up. He didn’t say anything either. He just kept playing. His brow was furrowed in annoyance, like Allen was an irritating child and little more.

Allen couldn’t fault him for that.

“Mana wasn’t very religious, either,” he went on, as gently as he could. A crease appeared between Neah’s brows. His jaw clenched. “Churches always seemed to make him nervous. He had me baptized all the same, though. I don’t really know why it mattered to him.”

The sound from Neah’s piano grew agitated, notes landing fast and firm.

“Was there something you wanted, Allen? I’m not in the mood to _entertain.”_

“I know,” Allen said, thinking back to Road’s warning. Neah likes to play when he’s in a mood. “To tell the truth, there’s something I really wanted to ask you.”

“Is it very important?” Neah asked, the definite undercurrent of impatience lacing through his tone. His eyes were focused on the ivories of his piano.

“It’s only to satisfy my own curiosity,” Allen admitted. “But I’d like for you to listen all the same.”

Neah went silent for a long moment. The space between them was filled with music, Neah’s song ascending in a passage of high, lyrical Romanticism. For a second, Allen thought Neah might be ignoring him again — then, slow and steady, his voice came through.

“I’ll listen. Of course, I won’t guarantee you an answer — but I’ll listen.”

Allen reached into his back pocket very slowly, withdrawing Mana’s photograph with great care. He held it up in front of Neah like a hand mirror, pinching the edge of the frame with his forefinger and thumb.

The woman in black, elegant as a raven, her expression vacant and thoughtful. She had the cultish, mysterious beauty of a sylph, or a ballerina, or a courtesan.

“Do you recognize this woman?” Allen asked.

Neah’s eyes flickered away from the keys, swivering lazily towards the photograph. He gave it a quick scan —

And then froze.

Silence fell over the chapel, heavy as a velvet curtain. Neah was no longer playing.

“Where did you get that?”

There was an urgency to his tone. Allen felt the cold prick of nerves, but didn’t waver. He kept his handy steady, grip firm on the faded daguerrotype.

“From Mana,” he said.

“Let me see that.”

“Is it someone you know?” Allen countered, pulling his hand back every so slightly so Neah couldn’t snatch the photograph away from him.

“Just let me see it,” Neah snapped, the black bead of his eye following the photo, restless and impatient. Allen bit his lip.

“You… you won’t tear it, will you?”

“Tear it? No, why would I—“ He stopped abruptly, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepening even further. He let out a sound of frustration and shook his head violently, the way a dog shakes itself after a bath. “Please,” he said — _appealing_ to Allen, small and wanting. “Let me see.”

Allen hesitated, then tilted the photograph towards Neah. Neah reached for it carefully, cupping the little scrap of paper in both hands, cradling it near his face.

“That’s Katerina Campbell,” he said. “Our mother.”

“Your mother?” Allen repeated. Somehow, this wasn’t the answer he’d expected.

“Yes.” Neah set the photograph on top of the piano mantle very carefully, balancing its paper body against a thick stack of incomplete sheet music. There was a reverence in the motion; a man preparing his altar. Hurt flashed across his features. It was a child’s hurt. “She’s been dead about four years now. Consumption. You know how it is.”

Allen didn’t know, not really. Still, he bowed his head. It was a simple thing to do, and it felt right.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, mostly to the piano’s gilded pedals. He lifted his eye in time to catch Neah’s shrug, so deliberately and carefully devoid of emotion.

“People die,” Neah said. He cast his gaze back towards the piano, hurt fading away into something dull and empty. “She was a fine woman. An excellent mother as well.” He dragged his knuckles across the keys, ruminating. “Mana was her favourite. Oh, I don’t resent it — Mana was a sick boy, and Katerina loved to coddle him. I, on the other hand, was a surpassingly cruel child. I know I strained her sympathies with my butterfly-killing, and her sympathies were vast.”

“Was she ever cross with you?”

“Sometimes, but Katerina didn’t like to scold. She had such a gentle disposition. Angelic, really. She rarely raised her voice. Never cursed, never lashed out. In fact, I’m not certain she ever _truly_ disciplined us. Oh, I’d get a whack across the knuckles here and there, but nothing more. I’m certain any other mother would have belted me thoroughly for my antics.”

“Right — you were a little tyrant, weren’t you?”

Neah laughed.

“A right horror,” he agreed. “Always pulling on Mana’s hair, digging up the garden, flipping skirts. I nearly killed the cat on three separate occasions."

He drummed his fingers against the piano rest.

I’m keeping this photograph,” he then decided, a certainty in his tone.

Allen’s stomach turned.

“Mana gave it to me,” he said, a knee-jerk reflex.

Neah folded his arms, pinning Allen with a hard look.

“It’s _my_ mother,” he challenged. Allen shifted his feet, uncomfortable.

Voice small, he murmured, “But it’s mine.”

Neah pinched the bridge of his nose, taking in a long, steadying breath.

“Listen to us,” he muttered, “arguing like children.” He lifted his chin a little, hand falling down against his lap. “I’ll tell you what, Allen. You can keep it in your chambers, but you have to let me frame it. Are we agreed?”

Allen thought about it very carefully. He didn’t want Neah to take his things — Mana’s things. He didn’t want them brought away, didn’t want them anywhere he couldn’t see them. He’d promised Mana. He’d promised Mana they’d be safe and sound with him. But, all the same— this was the best offer he was going to get. He needed to keep that photograph. That piece of him.

Before he was even really cognizant of it, his chin jumped up and down in the approximation of a slow, jerky nod.

“Thank you,” Neah said.

He put his hand on Allen’s shoulder. Allen nearly startled out of his skin.

Neah was nothing like Mana. Allen knew that.

But with that hand on his shoulder, the look firm reassurance —

And he was lost as a child.

“You’re full of surprises,” Neah said. He reached for the photograph, holding it as carefully, like something precious. Like the wing of one of his beloved nymphalid butterflies. “I’ll bring this back to you soon. Don’t fret.”

His hand slid off of Allen, oil on water. He was lifting himself away from the piano, walking down the aisle.

He thought of Mana’s words, scrawled with a wild hand on the back of Katerina’s photograph, _I will find you, I will find you, I will see you again._

A lump formed in Allen’s throat.

With any luck, he’d found her after all.

They would hide together, mother and son, cloistered within the kingdom of shades.

Allen sat down at the piano. He put his fingers to the keys. They were still a little warm with the memory of Neah’s touch.

He searched himself for the will to play, but came up dry.

It had been weeks now, and the music still evaded him. Rejected him. Perhaps he’d never play again.

That wouldn’t be such a loss, would it? He’d never been a great talent to begin with. He hadn’t even been a very good son. He thought of the window again, it’s ancient lock, it’s towering view. Perhaps the best Allen could do was follow his father. It wouldn’t be very difficult.

Slowly, he pulled the piano’s fallboard shut. It locked into place gently, obscuring the keys from view. That was better, somehow.

It seemed he’d been infected with Neah’s mood. Or perhaps it was the fault of the chapel itself. Churches were places of reflection, mirrors of the mind — and Allen’s mind was so rarely inclined to happy thoughts.

Lazing against the piano, he closed his eyes, focusing only on the sounds of rain, settling wood, and the tireless beating of his heart.

 

(✽)

 

“Mr. Walker. _Mr. Walker._ ”

Allen cracked an eye open, blinking in the low, filtered light of the chapel. He saw a firm chest, a pair of arms, a neck. Thinking there might be a head attached to it, he looked up. He was right. There was a head. A face, too. It was a handsome face. A familiar face.

He knew this face — it was one he liked quite a lot. Link’s blonde fringe was hanging over his eyes, stern browns pulled together.

“Oh,” Allen said. His voice came out thick and sleep-blurred. He let a deep breath in through his nose.  “Hello, Mr. Link.”

Link was leaning over Allen, adjusting his tie with one hand. He was frowning, like he always did. His lips had thinned into a serious little line. That was a shame. Link had an excellent mouth.

“Were you sleeping?” Link asked. His eyes were sweeping up and down over Allen, giving him a brusque one-over.

Allen let out a low hum.

“Mm.”

With a note of incredulity, “On the piano?”

“Mm. Yes.”

Link sighed, straightening back up into his usual ramrod posture.

“You know, I can’t say I recommend that.’

“Wasn’t looking for permission,” Allen murmured drowsily. He turned his cheek against his arm, glancing up Link with one lazy, lazy eye. “Why are you here?”

“I was taking a meeting with Mr. Kamelot,” Link said, wry and gentle, as if speaking down to a child. Allen didn’t mind that. He felt like a child, sleepy and slow. “I consult with him on my employer’s behalf.”

“Well, I knew that,” Allen said. Grasping for words, he lifted his head slowly from the piano. “Why are you _here?”_

“Here, specifically?” Link rose an eyebrow. “I was passing through the hallway when I caught a glimpse into the chapel. You were slumped over the piano. I was concerned.”

“Oh,” Allen said. He put his head back down. “I suppose that’s fair.”

He was still fumbling to reorient himself, still clawing at the obscuring haze of sleep. He felt as though he was forgetting something. Something important.

He reached for it — grasping, groping — but it slipped through his fingers like smoke.

Searching for some anchor to reality, Allen settled on Link’s face. It was a nice face, smooth and handsome and clear. With a pinprick of focus, Allen took him in. His shirt was hugging his shoulders, the fabric drawn taut, suggesting a musculature beneath. t was nice. About as nice as the way his breeches closed around his thighs, thick and hard. And his scent — Allen remembered that scent. Masculine and wood-smoked, musky-dark. Link’s aftershave.

“I’m not dreaming, am I?” Allen wondered aloud.

Link’s cheek hollowed. He was biting back a smile.

“No, sir.”

“Hm,” Allen said.  “Is it still raining?”

“No, sir.”

“And what time is it?”

“Nearly one o’clock, sir."

“Already?” Allen began to rouse himself from the piano bench, and was rewarded for his efforts with a sharp twinge in his lower back. “Ouch.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, frowning ever so slightly. Link huffed, folding his arms staunchly. Was he cross? Allen doubted it. If anything, Link seemed quite pleased to be vindicated. A streak of smugness, then. Allen supposed that was only natural. The man _was_ rich.

“There are more comfortable places to fall asleep, you know. Chaises, divans, sofas. Beds, even. I assume you’re familiar with beds, if only conceptually?

“Oh, you’re simply hilarious, Mr. Link,” Allen said, tilting his head to massage the base of his shoulder. “I’m positively _tickled._ Your rapier wit is a jewel in England’s holy crown.”

Link rolled his eyes.

“Should I send for a pot of coffee, sir? You must be tired if you’re drifting off in the middle of the afternoon.”

“I’m not terribly fond of the stuff,” Allen confessed, wrinkling his nose.

“Perhaps a strong tea, then?”

“You know, you’d make an excellent butler,” Allen said. He let out a sharp breath, blowing the fringe out of his face. “Tea would be… fine. I don’t know. Honestly, I have half a mind to put my head down and go back to sleep.”

“Did you sleep poorly last night?”

“No, my sleep… was relatively undisturbed,” Allen sighed. “It’s just — I’m just having one of those days. That’s all.”

Link’s lifted an elegant hand, trailing it gently along the velvet action frame of the piano. Allen watched them move along, his blunt nails dragging slow and firm against the burnished wood.

His hands were ungloved. They were always ungloved. A curious contradiction to his carriage and character.

“That certainly won’t do,” Link said. “If I may be so blunt — you look positively miserable, Mr. Walker. Let me put you to some good use.”

Allen lifted his chin, squinting up at Link warily.

“Good use,” Allen repeated doubtfully. Link nodded, firm and certain, his fringe bouncing against his temples. “What kind of use?”

“Go put your boots on,” he said, as proud and grim as war. “I’ll teach you to shoot.”

 

(✽)

 

“So… rifling?” Allen probed, kicking up a patch of pale, rain-slicked grass.

Link hummed appreciatively, toying with the action of his flintlock rifle. He looked like a completely different person without his sober black suit. He looked happier, for one. About ten years younger, too.

For the afternoon, Link had traded his overcoat and tie for a waist-length hunting jacket, breeches, and a pair of buttery leather boots. It was a refreshing change, Allen thought. He especially liked the boots. They looked surprisingly well-loved, leather creasing and crackling around his ankle and toe.

“If I’m being perfectly honest, I find the entire sport to be absurd,” Link confessed, eyes still trained on the rifle in his hands. He pried the chamber open, inspecting it for residue. “But it’s a good excuse to get outside, and a great deal more tasteful than fox hunting.”

Allen folded his arms one over the other as Link’s hands roved over the firearm’s forestock. They skimmed over polished mesquite, something quick and brusque in the motion. He seemed to be quite familiar with the weapon. Perhaps more familiar than any proper gentleman had a right to be.

“You worry about taste quite a lot, don’t you?” Allen commented.

“I do,” Link smiled, just for a flash -- it was a prim smile, tight and somewhat unnatural looking. Allen found it charming nonetheless. “Better to have it than to be without it.”

“Why not take up horseback riding?”

“Oh, I suppose I do ride occasionally,” Link said, loading his rifle bullet by bullet. “Still, I don’t have much talent for it. Frankly, I’m not all that good with animals.”

Allen grinned.

“What, too gentle with your crop?”

“Too harsh,” Link said. Then, he hefted his gun up, aiming square for the center of the clay target twenty feet ahead of them. “Now, hush. You’ll ruin my concentration.”

“Perhaps that’s the idea,” Allen said, taking a calculated step behind Link. Link’s back was a rampart, ramrod straight and perfectly aligned.  Allen was a little envious — Link’s carriage and comportment was so effortlessly, eternally elegant. “We are in competition, are we not?”

“Not above sabotage, are we?”

“Absolutely not,” Allen said, voice catching on a breath of laughter. “Where’s the fun in playing fair?”

“You lack sportsmanship,” Link murmured, but his voice was warm and without rancor. He stared through the sight of his rifle, continuing with a lofty, near-playful, “A terrible thing. Worthy of reproach, really.”

“Well, so long as you’re doing the reproaching, I don’t mind.”

“I’d show a little more concern, if I were you,” Link returned. “I told you already — I have the regrettable tendency to be careless with my whip.”

Allen smiled, sly and catlike.

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“If you keep this up, you very well may,” Link murmured, speaking into the side of his gun.

There was something undeniably erotic in that. Allen coughed into his hand and looked away, hoping Link wouldn’t notice his shiver, hot and indecent.

To be punished by Mr. Link —

It was an enticing prospect indeed.

Link leaned in ever so slightly, making minute corrections to his stance — fastidious in all things, even this. He drew in a shallow breath, just filling his lungs. Leaned in ever so slightly. His back was broad and warm beneath his coat, fingers trained with a standstill precision over the trigger.

He pulled fire, knocking the clay target off the stone wall.

“Oh!” Allen said, jolted from his daydream. He blinked out at the wall, at the empty space between Link and his target. “You’re a good shot.”

“I’m decent,” Link said without a hint of pride. He pointed the muzzle of his gun down towards the grass, expression inscrutable. “I told you that, sir.”

“You’re better than decent,” Allen argued. “Your bearings are excellent. Really smooth.” He waggled his eyebrows, challenging. “To me, they suggest training. Perhaps even… military expertise?”

Link sighed.

“Still on that, are we?”

“I see it in my mind,” Allen smiled, eyes jumping up and down the length of Link’s body. “A fitted red coat, tapered around the waist. White breeches, heavy boots. Fierce with a rifle and fiercer still with a blade. _Officer William Link, at your service_. Or is it John Link? James Link?”

Link looked a little peeved.

“Howard Link,” he corrected.

“Really?” Allen raised an eyebrow. He turned the name over in his mind — _Howard Link, Howard Link._ It didn’t exactly radiate bodice-ripping sex appeal, but he liked it anyways. It had a warm, earthy sound to it. “Well,” Allen said, “I suppose Howard isn’t so bad. I prefer _Howard_ to Eugene, or Herman.”

“It’s a name, nothing more,” Link said.

“Names and titles carry great weight in this country,” Allen argued. “You and I both know that.”

“Yes, well —” Link’s hands fidgeted over the smooth stock of his rifle, looking lost. _“Officer_ is not one of my titles, and never has been. I’ll tell you that much.”

“Well, that solves one mystery,” Allen said lightly. Then, “Are you a Habsburg prince?”

Link turned to Allen, looking a little alarmed.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m trying to get an idea of your background,” Allen said. “You have a sharp tongue, but your comportment is graceful. Very posh, very courtly. If you’re not military, then surely you’re some kind of royalty. A prince in disguise, perhaps? A young heir ousted from the throne? That would be very exciting.”

“I am _not_ Austrian royalty,” Link said, sounding a little affronted by the idea.

“Not even a little bit?”

“My pedigree is English, thank you very much,” Link scoffed.

“Well, you certainly have the manners to match,” Allen laughed.

Link’s face coloured with something like embarrassment. He shifted his footing, digging his heels into the dirt as he spoke.

“My habits stem from boyhood,” he said, looking down at his boots. “I attended a somewhat… _exacting_ finishing school. We were educated, most _stridently_ , in the art of etiquette — alongside a regular curriculum of history, politics, and arithmetic. We were all young heirs of one variety or another, set to advance to positions of power. The dangers of social ostracism were made paramount. After all, one’s words and actions can have damning repercussions on both professional and private affairs.”

Allen tried to imagine it. He pictured Link as a young man — sixteen at most — walking with encyclopedias on top of his head, balancing out his gait. He pictured him sitting in a tidy classroom with other boys his age, all dressed in immaculate little uniforms, learning grammar and fine manners from some wizened old man. How to address a lady, a servant, an equal. How to hold a teacup, a woman’s glove, and polite conversation.

“That sounds terrible,” he said, absolutely delighted by the mental image. “My God. You poor thing. Was your finishing school in the countryside, or in London?”

Link pursed his lips, cheeks flushing pink.

“I’ve said enough, I think.”

“Not nearly enough, no!” Allen insisted, now grinning ear-to-ear. “I want to hear more about it. Did they teach you how to court a woman? You’re such a gentleman, I’m sure you treat them as delicately as flowers. Oh — what about dancing? Can you dance a waltz?”

“I brought you out here to shoot,” Link said, a reprimand if Allen ever heard one. He extended his rifle in Allen’s direction, the gesture pointed indeed. He hadn’t completely recovered from his embarrassment, as evidenced by a lingering blush, but he’d gathered enough of his dignity to glare. “Not to perform an interrogation.”

Link had a lovely glare, and an even lovelier blush.

It was enough to convince Allen to let up.

Allen took the rifle carefully, settling one hand over its stock and the other over its smooth, polished bores. The weapon felt clunky and awkward in his hands. It was a quintessentially English weapon; military, severe, and straight-to-business.

He hefted the gun, pointing awkwardly at his target. He could see the point of the rifle wavering right and left, swaying minutely in his grip. Unsteady. Unfocused. That was probably a bad sign.

“Any advice, Mr. Link?” Allen asked, laughing nervously 

Link rolled his eyes. 

“Here, let me help you,” he said — and then, Link was stepping behind him. Putting his hands on him. Allen nearly went slack with surprise, Link’s warm, ungloved hands roaming down from his bicep and towards his fingers. “Rifling is a precision sport,” he murmured, gently easing Allen’s hands up the shaft of the gun. “Take some time to settle in, to test your grip. Hold your hand, here, right over the muzzle —” Allen’s fingers tightened unconsciously, and Link hummed in approval. “If your grip is steady, it’ll keep the barrel from rising and focus your aim. Now, keep your elbows down… yes, like that, excellent.”

Link’s skin was warm, his voice low and smooth as bourbon. Allen’s smile faded. Something was burning his chest, close to pain and even closer to pleasure. It was something he hadn’t felt in a long time — the giddy pulse of desire. It was intoxicating. Intoxicating and terrifying. 

He felt like a ribbon, like a loose bow being slowly, sensuously eased open.

He pulled the trigger.

There was a soft sound. _Bang._

The recoil left him tilting. A shock traveled up his arms — his hands jolted up, along with the rifle.

When his gun came back down, he saw that he’d knocked the clay pigeon square in the head.

A clean bull’s-eye.

“See? You’re a natural,” Link said, voice coming cool and sweet from over Allen’s shoulder.

“So it seems,” Allen said. His throat felt dry. Heart tight. He tried for a cheeky smile, faking it, making it. “Jealous, are we?”

“I’m quite pleased, actually,” Link said. His hand clapped over Allen’s shoulder, the solid warmth of his touch a kindness. “Come, now. Give it another go.”

Somehow, that put an ache in Allen.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move he lifted the rifle.

Link wasn’t like Kanda, Allen reminded himself. He was… civilized, restrained. He was courtly and noble without appearing garish, polite and well-mannered without seeming sycophantic. He had the temperament of a fairytale princeling.

Allen liked that.

He wanted it for himself.

But that was a danger in itself. He should not be pining for this man — be should not bet his heart on him.

Civilized, restrained men did not romp about with their own sex.

He felt a stab of something dark and angry. Envy, perhaps. Link never had to fight what was inside him, he was certain. He never had to grapple with a bestial, impure nature. He had no backwater temper. No _degenerate_ impulses, festering inside of him like poison.

Allen was wearing the clothes of a noble, but his blood was swill. It would always be swill. Sick and unclean.

He pulled the trigger, and the gun knocked the breath from his lungs.

 

(✽)

 

From then on, Allen thought of Howard Link as a friend.

It was a very simple, very comfortable sort of friendship. Possibly Allen’s only true friendship, at least in Heatherfield.

It was uncomplicated. Allen liked uncomplicated.

Link had frequent meetings with both Neah and Sheril Kamelot. Business consultation, market risk assessment, asset management; things only the fabulously wealthy could ever concern themselves with. He’d ride over in his big, fancy carriage (braid bouncing against his back as he stepped down onto the dry heath), then disappear into the study for hours and hours and hours.

And Allen, faithful as a housewife, would arrange for tea in the Campbell greenhouse.

The greenhouse, all but abandoned by the Campbell heirs, was Allen’s discovery. It was his sanctuary, his place of refuge, and the private site of his exile.

Inside, the air was thick, wet, steamy and larded with the scent of tropical orchids in bloom. The walls and domed roof were heavily misted, beads of condensation gathering against the glass. The orchids smelled as overpowering as boiling alcohol under a blanket. They were overwhelmingly sweet. Sweet as a girl’s first perfume.

The flowers filled the place, a forest of them, their fat leaves and stalks twining through the air. They nearly smothered out of the sky — but only nearly. Light still dappled through, harsh and persistent, tinted an unreal greenish color by the sea of plants. it reminded Allen of light filtered through an aquarium tank.

Like light filtered through a hazy, half-remembered dream.

A Proustian memory.

There was a pair of faded blue settees inside the greenhouse, their cushions warm and damp with floral heat. Allen found an old rosewood lounge table, too, and dragged it inside — like a slapdash tea parlour.

Link never complained about the heat. It never seemed to faze him at all, actually. Sometimes, he didn’t even bother to shrug of his coat — it swathed around him, big and gray and elegant.

Link liked the flowers, too. He liked them a lot. He found creative ways of arranging them around the greenhouse, which was nothing short of delightful. He maneuvered them over their chairs, around the legs of their table — wreathing them so carefully that Allen often felt he was sitting at the nucleus of a Renaissance painting.

His attention to detail was decidedly feminine. In fact, Allen realized, Link had a startlingly present feminine streak; fussy and peacockish and delicate. He sat with his legs crossed, prim and a little haughty. He had passionate opinions on interior decor, with a particular fondness for late-Rococo antiques.  He even brought his own sweets to tea — immaculate little _petit-fours_ crested with delirious swirls of whipped icing.

Contrasted against his stiff, soldierly disposition, it was _endlessly_ charming.

Sometimes, they played cards. Link wasn’t very good at card games. He had no talent for bluffing. His tells were countless. Endless. His brow would twitch. He’d cup his hand defensively. Purse his lips. He insisted on playing fair, too, which was nothing short of a fatal disadvantage. Allen robbed him blind for it.

Poor Mr. Link. He was smart enough to know when Allen was cheating, but not quite savvy enough to know how. It frustrated him half to death.

More often, they played chess. Link would always bring his own board and pieces; a hand-carved, well-loved antique passed down the Leverrier line. Link loved setting the board for them, taking a fastidious pleasure in neatly arranging the white and red pieces on their respective sides.

Allen didn’t like chess very much, but he did like Mr. Link.

“There’s no reliable way of cheating at chess,” Allen lamented, manoeuvering his pawn forwards, “short of physically sneaking the pieces across the board. And that’s such an _inelegant_ cheat.”

“I did not realize cheating could be an elegant art,” Link said. His hand hovered over the board carefully, considering his move.

More than happy to wait, Allen reached for his tea. The china was fine and white and patterned with little blue elephants. The tea was warm and robust. He drank it plain.

(Link, the madman, positively murdered his tea. No less than four sugars. Horrific.)

“Cheating requires subtlety,” he argued, lips pressed to the brim of his teacup. “Grace. Discretion. Timing.”

“But it’s more satisfying to win on your own merits, isn’t it?”

“It’s more satisfying to win, period,” Allen said. “I warned you once, Mr. Link — I am not above sabotage.”

Link pushed his pawn forwards carefully.

“I suppose you did,” Link said, frowning. “But surely you’ve at least a _speck_ of honour in you.”

Allen smiled.

“Honour? What’s that? Can I eat it?”

“You’re terrible,” Link sighed. “And I suppose you’ll never change.”

“A cheater’s a cheater until his dying day,” Allen laughed. Link made a dour face, reaching for his own tea.

“Make your play, Mr. Walker.  Lest you hasten _my_ dying day.”

“So dramatic,” Allen tutted, thumbing his rook into position.

Link shrugged amiably. He took tiny sips of his tea through his teeth, watching the board very carefully.

They traded a few blows; one of Link’s pawns, one of Allen’s pawns. To Allen, it felt like petty scraps. To Link, it might’ve been the first few steps in a predetermined set play, his gambit. Link was much better at chess than Allen; he saw the theory, the scope, the rules that let him win. Allen only ever looked as far ahead as the next two moves.

“Do you like music, Mr. Link?” Allen asked. Less interested in the game, more interested in the man in front of him. Link’s lips pulled into a wry little smile.

“Everyone likes music.”

“Well, you’re not wrong,” Allen said out. Link selected a bishop, considered his options, then nudged it forwards conservatively. “There’s a pointed difference between _liking_ music and _loving_ music, though. Do you _love_ music?”

“Passionately? I suppose not.”

“Well, there’s my answer. How about opera? Are you a fan?”

“Not especially, no.”

“What about ballet?” When Link made a face, Allen sighed. “Not one for the theatrical arts, I take it?”

“I’d rather spend an evening in my study,” he admitted.

“Working, or just brooding?”

Link’s lips twitched.

“Some combination of the two, ideally.”

“You may turn your nose up, but I think you’d find the Mariinsky company’s repertoire enchanting. I don’t love pretense — but I do love a good performance,” Allen said. He folded his legs one over the other, leaning forwards over the board. “If you’re ever in St. Petersburg, you should definitely put an evening on reserve. Pierina Legnani is a force of nature.”

Link let out an absurd little laugh, then tried to disguise it with a cough. Emphasis on _tried._

“What on _Earth_ would I be doing in St. Petersburg?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Allen said. Then, his curiosity blooming, “You aren’t much a traveller, are you?”

“Not really, no,” Link said. “I’m occasionally required to travel out to London on business, but never further.”

“Would you like to? Travel further, that is.”

“Not particularly. I cannot abide travelling by train — they’re so _crowded_. And I’d hate to be in any country where I didn’t know the language. That sounds like a nightmare.”

“Would you get homesick?” Allen asked, toying with the ridged edge of his rook.

“Oh… no.” Link’s eyes shifted away. “That… is not really something I worry about.”

Something was flashing in Link’s eyes; guilty and anxious and ill at ease. It fed Allen’s curiosity, ill-advised and furtive, the way a child feeds a hungry dog his dinner scraps.

“Where do you call home, Link?”

“You know,” Link said, eyes falling to the board, “it’s your move.”

“That’s a terrible deflection,” Allen laughed. He laced his fingers together, leaning forwards over the board. “Were you born here in the countryside, or out in the city? You still haven’t told me.”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Meanwhile, you’ve asked me very little,” Allen said. He cocked his head to the side. All of a sudden, something about that seemed very, very odd. And very _wrong._ “Aren’t you curious about me, sir?”

Link blanched.

“I — respect your privacy, sir.”

“You respect it quite a lot, my lord,” Allen frowned.  “You haven’t asked where _I’m_ from.”

“What does it matter? You’re English. I’m English.” Link fiddled with his teacup, fingers fumbling over the handle awkwardly, searching for purchase. “It’s your move, Mr. Walker.”

Allen didn’t so much as glance at the board.

“You know I’m not a Campbell, right?”

“I... assumed,” Link said.

“And you know… my birth is common?”

Link’s gaze flickered to the far wall. He set his teacup down. It clattered, china on china, too loud.

“I assumed.”

“That doesn’t seem odd to you at all? That an outsider, a nobody, would sweep in and claim the late Lord Campbell’s fortune? You’re not curious at all?”

“I have no wish to meddle in your private affairs,” he said.  He pulled his braid over his shoulder with one hand and held it there, stroking it, smoothing down the stray hairs that had jumped out of line. His expression was nigh unreadable; if Allen had to attribute any feeling to it, any feeling at all, it would be one of numb cold. A scraped-bone, stone-flower cold.

Allen didn’t fancy it. He didn’t fancy it at all.

“No wish, or no need?” he asked, a sting of paranoia jumping in his blood. It jumped and jumped and jumped until it hit the ceiling — a hard realization, bitter as lye. “You don’t need to ask me anything,” he said, eyes going saucer-wide. “You already know.”

Link said nothing. His hands wrung around his braid, tight, vice-like.

Licking his lips, Allen hazharded, “Were you — were you _briefed?”_

“Your situation was explained to me, yes.”

“By whom?”

“My employer. In a letter.”

“Why?” Allen asked. Then, with dawning horror, “Did he _instruct_ you to befriend me?”

“Did he — of course not!” Link let go of his braid. He looked nothing short of horrified. “He suggested you might be a powerful ally. He had the suspicion… that your _background_ might make you susceptible to influence.”

“A suspicion you were only too eager to confirm, I assume?” Allen bit out, harsh.

“I’ve told him nothing,” Link said, voice rising defensively. “His suggestion was the reason I first accepted you as a _client._ It is _not_ the reason I’m sitting here now, playing chess with you.”

Allen stared down at the board, its black-and-white pieces scattered haphazardly over the graded tiles. He’d been enchanted by the shapes of the pieces as a child; the funny little horses, the short, sloping queen, the bishop’s frilled edges. 

He didn’t feel that same enchantment, not anymore. He wanted to knock the pieces to the ground, to flip the board up into Link’s smug, stupid face.

“I hate chess, you know,” Allen said.

Link tried to smile. It looked terrible.

“I can see that.”

Link’s words replayed through his head. _He explained your situation._ And which situation was that? That Allen was an orphan and a cripple, badly educated, a miserable victim of fate? The foolish, doting caretaker of a madman? A harlequin? A clown? A punchline?

Allen… didn’t mind Link knowing. But he did mind that he hadn’t been the one to tell Link. His own narrative was out of his control.

“Tell me what you know about me,” Allen said, growing more unnerved with every second.

“You were born in England,” Link said. He looked away,  feigning interest in a heavy, hanging flower right above his shoulder. “I don’t know where, or when exactly. Shortly after birth, you were abandoned to a local orphanage — one already overburdened by about fifteen children. They sold you into labour when you were age of six. Too many mouths to feed.” 

“The coal mines,” Allen said. A phantom shiver coursed through his lame, burned-out arm.

_Little bodies in little tunnels, all covered in grime. Stray explosions, shudders racing through the ground. A path of cinders burning under my feet._

Link persisted, his tone low and steady.

“The letter said… you were _disfigured_ in some sort of mining accident. A coal fire. Leverrier didn’t make the nature of that disfigurement clear to me. I assume it has something to do with your scar,” Link said. He gestured towards his face vaguely, guilty. “Regardless, once you were unable to work, the work camp was quick to discard of you. Luckily — or perhaps unluckily — a group of performers took you under their wing. _Le Cirque d’Hiver._ A disreputable venture owned and managed by a lowborn circusman named Cosimo.”

The name was enough to put an old lick of fear in Allen. He looked away sharply.

“I’m told Cosimo was… _unkind_ to his employees, to put it gently. But.. it was in his company that you first met Mana.” Link’s lips pursed; he looked as though he’d tasted something unpleasantly sour. “Mana,” he went on, “was travelling through Europe under the umbrella of various troupes. He worked… as an entertainer.”

“A clown,” Allen corrected, sharp and shrewd. Link’s little grimace tightened. Allen smiled. It was a nasty smile, a Neah-like smile. “Yes, sir. It’s true. The born heir to one of England’s most powerful families ran off to be a _clown.”_ The pulse in Link’s throat jumped. It wasn’t funny at all, that jump, but Allen felt the urge to laugh anyways. “By God, don’t _strain_ yourself, Mr. Link. I wouldn’t expect a fancy noble like you to understand.”

“I’m n—” Link’s jaw worked. “You’re right,” he allowed. “I don’t understand.”

“And you never will,” Allen said. His hands balled into fists against his thighs, his silky white gloves a hypnotic contrast to the matte black of his pants.

“I’m told your Mana wasn’t entirely well,” Link said, low.

Allen bit the inside of his cheek.

“He was well enough for me.”

“He never frightened you? Or upset you?”

Lenalee’s concerned whispers, Lavi’s look of veiled pity, Kanda — goddamn it, _Kanda,_ with his arms folded one over the other, mouth moving in a blur, _You’re making yourself miserable over him, you know._ He hadn’t listened to any of them — of course he hadn’t.

Mana had given him everything.

“Never,” Allen lied.

Link gave him a long, sad look.

“I know you travelled with him until adulthood, learning his skillset. Sleight of hand, performance, acrobatics, dance — even music.” Link stood at the length from the blue settee, wandering a few steps away to inspect a heavy bough of greenery. “I know you cared for him when he became unable to work.”

Link ran his rough, white fingers over the damp greenery. His touch was reverent, butterfly-gentle; it put that old ache back in Allen. He stashed it away. It mortified him, that aching feeling; he fed the mortification into his anger.

It was easy to be angry. Like Neah, clapping his cane against the floor. Like Kanda, who made love like a beast but could hardly stand to look Allen in the eye. Like little Red, all bruises and blasphemes.

“You were a loyal son,” Link said. His hand dropped to his side. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Allen said. “I don’t need your pity.”

“It’s not pity. It’s _empathy.”_

Allen put his head into his hands and closed his eyes.

“Sure it is.”

He could hear Link’s footsteps, clean and sharp against the lacquered greenhouse tiles.

“Last year,” he said, “Mana opened contact with the Campbell family… for the first time in nearly a decade. He sent a letter, his will, declaring you the rightful inheritor to whatever titles and wealth he still held.”

“Then he killed himself,” Allen said. He kneaded the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Someday, Mr. Link, someone will summarize the terrible events of your life so quickly.”

Link turned around. He looked so strange, so infuriating and so handsome, his suit cast in odd shadows by hothouse light and shade.

“I truly am sorry, Mr. Walker,” he said. His eyes were soft as a doe’s, though they wouldn’t quite meet Allen’s. His mouth and chin were stiff, unmoving, regal.

Allen hated him like he’d scarcely hated anything, except for maybe Cosimo, Kanda, and himself.

“You know all this, but you won’t tell me where you’re from?” He asked. It was the red in him speaking; red, red, Red, burning through him like a fire. “Oh, because _that_ doesn’t reek of hypocrisy.”

Allen smacked his fist against the table; the teacups made a loud sound, rattling against their little plates.

(What angry, foolish men they’d all become.)

“I suppose I shouldn’t even bother to ask,” Allen continued, head bent. “I can probably guess. You were born in a mansion by the sea — the third son to some old, tired lineage. Did they swaddle you in silks, peel you grapes? Or maybe you’re this Mr. Leverrier’s little bastard? That would explain a lot.”

“Allen,” Link said. He was coming closer, walking up to Allen’s chair. “I am going to disregard that. You’re upset. You’re not acting like yourself.”

“Aren’t I?” Allen said. He bit the inside of his cheek; he didn’t want to cry. Not in front of Link. He tried to channel his tears into more anger, fuel for the flame. “Have you been looking down on me all this time, feeling smugly superior? Or am I your charity case?”

“No!” Link sounded stricken. “No, Allen — of _course_ not. How could you say that?”

“Then why—”

“Allen, I enjoy spending time with you! I enjoy your perspective!” Link’s bare hand touched the blade of Allen’s shoulder. Allen nearly jumped out of his skin. “Allen Walker,” Link said, beautiful and urgent, “I don’t mind that you have a past. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

Now Allen really was crying. Big, ugly, silent tears. They rolled down his cheeks, fat and hot, leaving salty tracks against his skin. Allen rubbed at his face, furious with himself.

“Now drink your tea, Mr. Walker,” Link said, squeezing his shoulder reassuringly. Allen laughed brokenly.

“You are the _worst.”_

Link sat down next to him. At a loss, Allen did as he was told. He reached for his teacup and took a long, quiet drink. His tea was lukewarm, but it didn’t matter. It filled his stomach, sweet and strong, and doused his anger out.

“I left a lover in Moscow, you know,” Allen said. He wiped his wet face with a sleeve, graceless. “I had a job. Friends. A life. I could’ve stayed there. I inherited this — this title, this money. But I didn’t have to accept it. I could’ve stayed.”

“Then why did you come?“

Allen put his teacup down.

“I wanted to understand,” he said. “I still do. I want to understand — so, so badly. I want to understand Mana. I want to understand what he went through. How he felt. More than anything… I want to understand why he died. I thought… if I came here, where it all began, maybe it would — maybe it would make _sense_ somehow.”

Allen shook his head.

“The days following his death… passed through me like a blur. I thought, _There has to be more. There has to be a reason.”_

“Sometimes, terrible things happen,” Link said. He covered one of Allen’s hands with his own — big, warm, and wonderful. “There’s no good reason for that. Mana was sick, Allen. He was sick for many, many years. One day, he succumbed. There is no reason for that. It simply is.”

Allen felt his shoulders begin to shake.

“I didn’t know Mana,” Link confessed. “Still… I can tell he loved you. Now and forever, you are his son. He left you his money so you’d be taken care of. But —” And with this, a pained expression flashed across Link’s face, “if you’re not happy here… I think he’d tell you to go home.”

Home? And where _was_ home — his little apartment in Moscow? Would Lenalee still be there, doing fouettes up the street, her black hair done up in ribbons? Would Lavi still be dozing in the library, red hair a mess? Would Kanda be there? Would he be ready to forgive?

Did Allen really deserve that?

“I need to think about this,” Allen said, pulling his hand away from Link’s. "All of this."

Link nodded stonily.

“Of course.”

They sat in silence. Link sipped at his tea. Allen stared down at the chessboard. It was a gorgeous chessboard. He still hated it. He still wanted to cheat. He wanted to break the game to let him win.

“I’m sorry I called you a hypocrite,” he said. “And a bastard. 

“I apologize as well,” Link said. “For being a hypocrite. And a bastard.”

Allen couldn’t help it. From the very bottom of his heart, he laughed.

 

 

_A BUDDING GROVE_

III

 

 

They sat in Allen’s suite, day folding into night. Backed by starlight, there was a strange, almost magical air to Allen’s room — an air magnified by the ghastly, dim glow of a single gas lamp. A strange kind of evening. A hot and dark evening, full of August honey. The sort that urges you to whisper, to light candles, to speak in tongues.

They sat, knee to knee, on the divan together. There was a pot of coffee in front of them, hot and delicious, but Allen hardly touched the stuff. His stomach was flip-flopping, all funny and nervous. The result of Link’s proximity, most likely. Or perhaps it was simply his scent.

The scent of Link’s aftershave was, and forever would be, a radical surprise. A perfume or cologne, like the timbre of a voice, could say something quite independent of the words actually spoken. What Link’s scent said was, _‘this is a man.’_ But the way it said it was an epiphany. Glowering, concentrated, and smouldering in its deep wooden essences, smooth, with a high quality osmanth… Allen itched to draw closer and closer.

Too close.

A state of dangerous infatuation.

A minute-to-minute madness.

Unaware, Link sipped at his coffee from a clear, bone china cup. Allen fiddled with a box of matches.

“You know, Road’s been begging me to attend the Summer’s End Ball,” he said, shifting in his seat.

“It is a fixture in Heatherfield,” Link nodded sagely. “It’s considered to be a somewhat indispensable event, at least in the eyes of the local wealth. Many good houses abuse the event as an opportunity to flaunt their eligible daughters.”

“You make it sound so crass.”

“It is _crass,”_ Link muttered, looked peeved.

Allen hummed, cocking his head to the side.

“Then I suppose you won’t be attending?”

“Actually, I will,” Link sighed. “It’s a high society event of relative import. People will talk if I do _not_ attend.”

“You don’t sound like you’re looking forwards to it.”

“I am not. I have no patience for frippery,” Link said against the brim of his cup, expression darkening. “I take no pleasure from such foolish diversions. I’d rather spend the evening at work.”

“Or perhaps sitting in my suite, drinking _my_ overpriced coffee.”

“There is no overpricing quality,” Link huffed. Then, mollifying, “Have you given Lady Road your answer?”

“Not yet,” Allen said. “That is… well. I’ve always liked parties. I always have. Unlike you, I have a virtually unlimited patience for frippery.” Then, he frowned. He set the matchbox down very carefully, eyes trained on the tabletop. “But… this is going to be a very public event, isn’t it? All corsets and dances and codes of etiquette. I’m not sure I’m prepared for the full scrutiny of English high society. I fear I’ll make a fool of myself.”

“Nonsense,“ Link said. “You’ll charm the lot of them. I’m certain of it.”

Allen lifted his eyes.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Simple,” Link said, settling into his seat. “You charmed me. Thoroughly.”

Something silly in Allen’s stomach did flips at that, truth be told.

“Was it my poor penmanship that won you over, or the big, nasty scar?"

“It was your wit, if you must know,” Link returned, rolling his eyes.

“My wit?” Allen smiled. “I like that.”

He liked it quite a lot.

They spoke about art, about books. Link couldn’t stand the theatre, and had no patience for dance. Abstraction was lost on him. He had a mild interest in philosophy, but no application for it. His favourite place in the world was his kitchen. His second was Leverrier’s office.

His third was on an open pitch, staring down the sights of his rifle.

There was a vivid splendor to Link’s internal world; a colour and a poise. Buttons and laces, diamond cufflinks. Dotted line;, rapid, flouring signatures. Red baneberries. Greenish hairgrass. Damp, oiled bores, clay targets that burst like bodies. _I live my life in ink and paper, but still, I find myself craving fresh air. Fresh ideas. I first started baking to imitate Leverrier, you know — but the further I took it, the more it seemed a revelation. When I’m up to my elbows in flour, I forget myself. I forget inheritance. I forget duty. I become someone else; someone simpler._

It was a wonderful thing, coming to know Howard Link.

A source of intoxication.

“Would you like to see something a little different?” Allen asked, spying a glance over at Link. Link looked up from his coffee and frowned.

“I don’t know. Would I?”

Allen laughed. Link wasn’t a funny man, but Allen laughed more with him than anyone else.

“Don’t look so alarmed, Mr. Link. It’s nothing _salacious.”_

“And yet,” Link said, brows furrowed, “I am unconvinced.”

“Let me convince you, then.”

He fetched for his old suitcase — which he kept stashed under his bed — and showed Link everything he had. Everything from his travels. It was a modest collection, but a varied one. His battered passport, his bright red wool walking socks, his smuggled tins of Russian tea… he screwed them open and let Link smell from them. Link wrinkled his nose at the fragrance, the dense scent of Eastern spices foreign to his English nose.

Then, in a fit of honesty, Allen went back to his bedroom and pulled the brown paper envelope out from beneath his pillow.

“These are my treasures,” Allen said, chin dropping low. Holding the envelope out to Link, he said,  “See, these are Mana’s photographs. Hold them very gently— like so.”

He slid them into Link’s hands slowly, carefully — lovingly. Link took a hold of them. His touch was cautious, but explorative; trust taken, trust honoured. Allen watched over his shoulder as he turned the photos over; first, the old Campbell family portrait. Link studied it with a look of real interest. In turn, Allen studied Link.

It came to his attention that Link was very clean-shaven — he’d noticed it before, of course, but he’d never really thought about it. Did Link shave very carefully, perhaps with a straight razor? Did he not grow facial hair at all, like Allen? Allen reminded himself to ask later.

He would _kill_ Link if he ever grew a beard.

“Was she the mother of the house?” Link asked, singling out Katerina among the crowd. He pointed to her with his forefinger. She was wearing a large black bonnet that nearly obscured her face entirely.

“Katerina Campbell, yes,” Allen said. “Neah and Mana’s mother. She’s been dead for some time now, I’m told.”  
  
“That’s unfortunate,” Link murmured. He turned over to the next daguerreotype. “I wonder what kind of mother she was. She certainly raised unusual children.”

“Neah called her angelic,” Allen said. “Apparently, she never scolded, never yelled. I suppose she was forgiving to a fault.”

“Though we may strive to walk in the path of God, it is not necessarily wise to imitate angels,” Link said stonily. He studied the new image before him, and his face brightened somewhat. “Goodness. Is that the young Lord Campbell?”

Allen glanced down at the photograph, at the dirty children with sulky faces, and grinned.

“Yes. A right scoundrel, I’m told.”

“Did no one _ever_ think to wrestle him into a bath?”

“Look at those biters,” Allen argued, fighting back a giggle. “Who would dare?”

Link took a quick sip of his coffee, then flipped to the next photograph.

“Ah,” Allen said, eyes landing on the long, dark shadow cast by the oak. “The tree Mana and Neah used to play by, apparently.”

“It looks ancient,” Link marvelled. He lifted his chin. “You know, it’s probably still on the grounds.”

“It probably is,” Allen agreed, meeting Link’s eyes thoughtfully. “We should go looking for it, you and me.”

Link looked pleased with the suggestion.

“I could saddle the horses up with a picnic. Teacakes with clotted cream, perhaps a bottle of demi-sec.”

Food, sunshine, and Howard Link. What more could Allen ask for?

“That sounds _marvelous,”_ he said keenly.

Link shuffled the photographs together neatly, handing them back to Allen.

“You keep those safe, Mr. Walker.”

“I will,” Allen promised. Meaning it. Vowing it. He tucked them back into their envelope, smoothing a finger down the seal. “Would you like to see something else?”

Link did.

Allen drew out the satin ribbon. It was little frayed, a little faded, but still shimmered under the gaslight like a ghost.

“This belonged to a friend of mine,” he said. He pinched one edge of the satin ribbon and lifted it up for Link to see. Link leaned in, and looked it up and down.  “She was a Chinese dancer. Like me, she travelled all over… along with her ridiculous brother. She could speak four languages, if you can believe it.” Link’s eyes followed the ribbon as it swayed. The movement of his dark eyes was hypnotic.

“She went to Moscow to learn ballet. She was good at it, too. And so kind. She made friends wherever she went, and wherever she _lived,_ she found family.”

A little frown creased the ridge of Link’s brow.

“Were the two of you romantically involved?”

“What? No!” Allen retracted, a little offended by the suggestion. “You’re so old-fashioned. So outmoded. A man and a woman can simply be _friends_ , you know. Besides... I had someone else.”

Link’s eyes softened.

“Your lover,” he said.

Allen’s nodded.

The thought of Kanda... made his heart go tight with pain. But it no longer choked him. Not like it used to.

His finger’s found Kanda’s hairpin; steely and simple, crested by a deep blue bead. He lifted it up without fanfare. Link looked at it. And then, Link looked at him.

“A last keepsake,” Allen said. He turned the pin over, twisting it between his thumb and forefinger. “I sometimes wonder if I should throw it away.”

“Did she wear her hair very long?”

“Longer than you,” Allen said, not bothering to correct Link. “It went down to hi— to her waist. Black as night. But she always kept it tied back — I only ever saw it loose once. Somehow, it made her look so vulnerable. I was in shock.

_And I used to make love with my clothes still on, just so Kanda wouldn’t see my scars._

_In the end, he saw my scars — and I saw his. But it never made us kinder. It never made us happier. He never licked my wounds; only exposed them._

Allen closed his fist around the hairpin. It disappeared from sight, swallowed up by his gloved hand.

“Will you return to her?” Link asked.

“I don’t know,” Allen said. “If I did, it wouldn’t be the same. So many things changed in me when Mana died.”

Link looked troubled. He pulled his braid over his shoulder, twisting the end around his hand. He twisted and untwisted, like a lady wringing a cloth.

“Do you still care for her?”

“No.” Then, “Yes. I don’t know. That’s complicated,” he sighed. “I care for her. I always will. But I don’t know if I still love her.”

Finger by finger, like a stage magician, he opened his fist. The pin fell against the table with a sound like a sparkle.

“We fought all the time. Every single day. But I don’t have the energy in me to keep fighting, and I don’t think he knows how to stop,” Allen laughed, realizing his mistake. _“She’ll_ ever stop, I mean. _She._ Slip of the tongue.”

He turned around, searching for Link — but Link was no longer facing him. He’d turned towards the window, his face washed in sunlight. Very slowly, Link released his braid. It fell down his back, right down against his spine, swinging back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock.

Were Allen was free to follow his heart, he would take it in his hand and kissed the tip of it.

_Oh, Allen, you promised yourself you wouldn’t think such things._

_Too close. Too close. Not close enough._

_Never close enough._

“It’s not a terribly interesting story,” Allen said. “I apologize for that.”

Link turned back around to face Allen. His expression was funeral-grim.

“I appreciate your trust,” he said.

Allen smiled.

“Do you, now?”

“I do.”

“Yes, well,” Allen laughed a little awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I can’t help trusting you. You have one of those faces.” Then, without thinking much at all, he murmured, “You can trust me too, you know.”

For a fraction of a second, Link’s expression splintered.

“Walker,” he said, quiet and full of urgency. Allen shook his head, shame racing back into him.

“Disregard that. It was only a thought.”

Link edged a little closer, casting his eyes down.

“There are things I wish to tell you,” he said, “but it’s — difficult. For me. You have to understand, I’ve never really had a close friend my own age. At least not since finishing school… but even then, we never _confided_ in one another.  We only ever competed.”

Allen looked down at Link’s hands. He couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he said nothing. Nothing at all. Apparently, that silence did nothing to reassure Link. His fingers twitched up the side of his coffee cup. He bit his lower lip, fraught with an uncharacteristic restlessness.

“You have to understand,” he said again, now with a terrible earnestness. He sounded like he was bargaining with Allen. Pleading. It jarred Allen, somehow. This time, Allen found himself nodding along, hoping to placate Link.

“Of course I understand, sir,” he said, the words jumping from him with a forced, automatic sound.

Link shook his head and sighed. He seemed to grope for words for a long minute, his frustration growing more apparent by the minute.

“I… I have a treasure of my own,” Link finally said, “if you’d like to see it.”

Allen frowned, insecurity washing into confusion.

“What kind of treasure?”

“A good one,” Link said.

Link reached into the breast pocket of his waistcoat. He pursed his lips, eyes darting to the side — hesitation? Then, he withdrew his hand, and Allen saw the glint of a bronze chain. It was a hand-wound pocketwatch, battered but gorgeously crafted. Allen leaned in a little closer, taking in the mesmerizing sheen of its quartz-glass front.

“Leverrier gave me this on my eighteenth birthday,” Link said, holding it out on his palm. “It’s quite old, and runs about a half-minute slow…” Fervently, his grip tightened around it. His voice was raw with a fey, childlike wonder. “The thing has been in his family for half a century, apparently. And he saw it fit to give it to me.”

“It’s certainly... a very paternal gift,” Allen said.

Hearing the undercurrent of a question in Allen’s words, Link’s lips twitched.

“Leverrier isn’t my father, if that’s what you’re asking. Not by blood, not by law — not in sentiment, either. He sees me only as a subordinate. I know this. I’ve always known this.”

He turned the pocketwatch over in his hands, tracing the scars and imperfections that had been weathered into the surface over the years.

“But… all the same…” Link’s eyes misted over. “When Leverrier put this pocketwatch in my hands, I felt — for the first time in my life —  a firstborn’s pride. It was nothing short of transformative.”

“Transformative?”

Link looked up at Allen, eyes shining. He looked so strangely charming, younger than ever, blonde fringe curling over his temples.

“He looked at me — and said, _Howard, you’ve become a worthy man._ Put the pocketwatch in my head, then went back to his desk to stamp out his cigar. A worthy man. _Worthy._ Those words… still have a hold on me. It’s perhaps the only genuine compliment he’s ever paid me,” Link said. He shook his head in mute wonder. _“Acknowledgement,_ Mr. Walker. Something so simple — but to me, so desperately hard to come by.”

“Link,” Allen probed, as gently as he knew, “your own parents…”

Link pursed his lips. Not for the first time, his eyes retreated.

“It’s quite a dull story,” he said. He tucked the pocketwatch back into his waistcoat, putting the pocket down very gently. “They’re not in the picture, if you must know.”

Allen looked down. He wondered what, exactly, it took for an aristocratic family to exile their only son.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not knowing _why_ but meaning it truly.

“Don’t be,” Link said — not defensive, not dismissive, but sincere. “I certainly have no regrets. Everything worked out for the best. I promise you that.”

He sounded so sure of himself, too. So completely and unwaveringly certain that Allen couldn’t help but be a little envious. He raised his head dolefully, eyes lifting just in time to see Link stand at length. He kept his fine, pointed chin held high and his shoulders squared, holding himself with such _pride_ — what had Link called it? A firstborn’s pride?

Allen supposed he wouldn’t know anything about it.

“Leverrier expects me to inherit his position,” Link said. Quieter now, and all the more urgent for it. “His empire. He has given me — an opportunity of inestimable value. An opportunity for greatness. I must become a man he can respect. I owe him that.”

Allen tilted his head to the side, pinning Link with a wry look.

“Everything for him?” he asked.

Link nodded.

“Everything for him.”

And that. That broke Allen’s heart, just a little.

 _You sound like me,_ Allen thought of saying — but he held his tongue, thinking the better of it. After all, Link was nothing like him, and Leverrier was nothing like Mana. Because Mana had _loved_ him. Loved him, truly, the way only a father could love.

Meanwhile, Link was being used, and it was painfully obvious.

“Are you really satisfied,” Allen demurred, twisting his hands together nervously, “living for the sake a man like that?”

Link turned in mute surprise. His stare landed on Allen, hard and firm and cigar-dark. At first, Allen thought he might be angry. Link’s temper was slower to build than Allen’s flashfire rages, but it was a force to be reckoned with nonetheless. Allen braced himself for Link’s fury, the cold stab of it — but it never came.

A beat passed between them. The silence was dark and heavy, much like the lingering drydown of bergamot and osmanth.

“Mr. Walker,” Link said. His tone was diplomatic — detached, even. The fractured look on his face was mending, piece by piece. “I admire you deeply. And I feel… more connected to you than I ever deemed possible. But I do not expect us to agree on this.”

Allen laughed. It was an empty, hollow laugh.

“A fine way of ending a conversation.”

“It isn’t a conversation worth having,” Link said.

“I suppose it isn’t,” Allen agreed. He smiled, warm and small and tired.  “It’s a beautiful pocketwatch, sir.”

Something in Link’s eyes went soft and warm.

“It is.”

 

(✽)

 

The Summer’s End Ball landed on the anniversary of Allen’s first month in Heatherfield.

Perhaps that was symbolic.

Perhaps it only meant thirty days had passed.

It was a decidedly Campbell celebration; quarantined to the ballroom and the front foyer. The ballroom was drawn in a wide arch, walled in dense, cream-coloured curtains and overlit by an enormous, crystalline chandelier. There was a quintet playing in the corner; a flute, a violin, a pianist, a cellist, and what appeared to be a great, percussive horn. They led the room into a brisk allegro.

Allen ditched the dancing and headed for the food. Jellies in beautiful jewel tones, tipsy cake, hams drenched in dark amber syrups — he loaded up his plate gleefully, ignoring a passing lady’s look of disapproval.

Social standing meant _nothing_ when food was on the line.

Johnny had fitted him with a brand new party suit for the occasion. It was crisp and black with a hip-length jacket, and lined with a rich, dark velvet. Allen supposed this was what passed for a modest statement among English nobility. Personally, he found it very dandy-like. More than anything, reminded him a little of a magician’s performance suit, though without any of the same corny embellishments. Instead, the suit had been matched with a floppy red bowtie. That had been Johnny’s choice, not his own, but Allen couldn’t say he hated it. It gave an otherwise imperious outfit a sort of authentic, boyish charm. It was more comfortable than a necktie, too.

He dug his fork into a slice of chiffon cake, wondering when he’d run into Link.

Plate in tow, he went roving about the party. He was searching for a blonde braid, a fine chin, a gray overcoat —

And came up short.

What he found instead was Lord Neah Campbell.

He was dressed all in black; heavy blacks, funeral blacks. He looked like an undertaker. A rich, surly, alcoholic undertaker, cradling an enormous glass of wine. His silver cane was leaning against the side of a nearby table, all but abandoned.

The moment Allen entered his field of vision, Neah’s eyes darted over him. They were furtive, distrustful.

“You clean up alright,” he said, bouncing back on his heels. His unpleasant little mouth twisted into a suitably unpleasant scowl.

“Only alright?”

“Only just,” Neah agreed. “And even then, that’s more to Mr. Gill’s credit than your own. He’s done well to dress you to your strengths, few as they may be. The velvet lining was a particularly canny choice. You’re slight of frame, but the heavy velvet lends you a little weight. A little substance.”

Allen laughed, not knowing whether to be pleased or simply irate.

“Why, Mr. Campbell! That was very nearly a compliment!”

“Yes, well — don’t get used to it, my dear,” Neah said, lippy. His scowl shifted into a strange, strained smile. “Enjoying yourself?”

“About as much as I expected to,” Allen answered, which was true. His eyes wandered over the table Neah was standing in front of, the myriad of brown bottles littering its surface. “And what about you? I see you’ve been into the liquor.”

“This,” Neah said, gesturing grandly to his glass of wine, “is a fortified Grenache red with raspberry cassis. A rare and marvelous treat — a dense and creamy body, with a tart, fruity finish.”

Allen raised an eyebrow.

“You’re quite the sommelier.”

“I like to drink."

“So I’ve noticed,” Allen noted.

Neah rolled his eyes and tipped his glass of wine back. He took an alarmingly long drink, swigging it like a sailor would cheap whiskey. Once his glass was empty, he went fumbling for the table behind him, fist wrapping around the neck of the wine bottle to pour himself a second glass.

“Where is your Mr. Link?” Neah asked, watching with great interest as the castellated bottom of his glass was drowned in red.  “I was under the impression you were a matched set. I often see the both of you wandering the manor together… he’s quite an earnest gentleman, isn’t he?”

Allen coloured in embarrassment.

“We’re… close, yes.”

“If you were any closer, you’d be joined at the hip,” Neah said, dry. Allen shifted in discomfort, wondering how, exactly, he ought to respond. Neah must have caught on, because he amended himself grudgingly. “You misunderstand. I don’t disapprove. Quite the opposite, in fact. It is good to have… friends. I’m only surprised you found friendship with one as upright and surly as our little Howie Link.”

“He’s a good man,” Allen returned guardedly. Then, the corners of his mouth twitched upon into a little smile. “Also, a terrible gambler.”

“Ha! I’m glad to hear it,” Neah raised his glass as if to make a toast, his singularly catlike eyes shining faintly. “It’s not healthy for a young man to spend so much time alone. You ought to live a little more.”

Allen gnawed at his lower lip.

“I— perhaps,” he demurred, a current of uncertainly coursing through him.

Neah scoffed.

“Now, what’s with that face? Go! Have fun. Drink yourself into a stupor! Cause mass property damage! Elope with a pretty serving girl! Whatever you young people get up to these days,” he said. He bounced back on his heels again, deliberating. A strange little mannerism of his; distinctly childlike. “You know,” he continued, voice dropping an octave, “you can only punish yourself for so long.”

Allen stiffened immediately.

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Neah interrupted. He slapped his free hand uselessly against his thigh; if he’d been holding it, perhaps he would’ve thumped his cane. “It’s written all over your face, you know. Big and sad and so terribly guilty.”

_Guilty?_

Allen’s head swam. For a moment, ever brief, he grasped for a response — but nothing came. Nothing satisfying, at the very least. So he cast his gaze out towards the partygoers; dowagers in monstrous velveteen gowns, soldier-boys with their slicked-up boots, the little dilettantes dancing sloppy waltzes in new, acrylic heels. He spotted Road among their numbers, terrorizing a fresh-faced boy with the bat of her lashes.

What was so wrong with guilt? It was a natural, even healthy response, wasn’t it? A deep, bodily rejection of sin.

_Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa._

“I shouldn’t joke,” Neah sighed. He slumped back against the table, defeated. “This isn’t a laughing matter.”

“No,” Allen said, fighting back the lump in his throat. “It’s not.”

Neah turned back to the table. He popped the wax cork on the red Grenache and poured it out into an empty glass.

“Here. Have a drink.”

Allen nearly laughed. Nearly.

“I’ll pass.”

“No, you won’t,” Neah said. “And neither will I. Lord knows I can’t truly speak my mind until I’m three glasses down, and — well. I’d like to be honest with you, if only this once.”

He held the glass out to Allen. Wordlessly, Allen relented. acquiesced. He accepted the wine with both hands, cupping the base of the glass carefully. Satisfied, Neah went to work refilling his own glass.

“Feeling sentimental?” Allen asked, staring down into his wine. He sniffed it experimentally. It was tart and fruity; seductive, in the way only a good wine could be. He was distinctly reminded of blackcurrent.

“Me? Never,” Neah said. Then, quite abruptly, he tilted his glass upwards and drained it in one go.

Allen took a conservative sip of his own glass. It was a sweet, smooth wine, like dessert in a glass, with the tart sting of alcohol swinging beneath ever softly. Allen pulled away from the brim, rolling his tongue. He’d enjoyed it more than he’d expected to.

He looked back to Neah, whose glass was once again empty

“That was a lie,” Neah said, speaking at length, his eyes glazing over. “I… I do feel sentimental. Hideously sentimental. I can’t help it. Mana and I used to attend these events as young men. We weren’t exactly fine debutants, mind you. I only showed up to make snide remarks, and Mana only knew how to embarrass himself — especially in front of women.”

Allen surprised them both with a jolt of laughter.

“That never changed,” he said.

Neah grinned stupidly.

“Mana loved women! Not that he was a casanova, no, but he loved them. Deeply, painfully, and often baselessly. He acted like a fool around them, and cried pitifully when they inevitably broke his heart,” Neah sighed, shaking his head sadly. “I wish I could blame them. His intentions were pure, but he was so awkward. Awkward and strange. Not the sort who finds any luck in courting.”

Allen laced his fingers around his glass, a small smile hitching up on his face.

“He — he once told me he’d proposed to a girl within a minute of meeting her.”

Neah slammed his empty glass against the table, letting out an uncharacteristically boisterous laugh.

“Elizabeth fucking Pentaghast! Beautiful girl. Absolutely stunning. Good God, I nearly proposed to her myself. Not that it would’ve done me any good. She turned all her suitors down — even the young Earl of Livingcliff —  and entered the sisterhood. Shocked us all, especially Mana.”

“Did Mana pine for long?” Allen probed.

Neah snorted.

“He _pined_ for all of five minutes. That boy moved on fast. He’d be crying his eyes out one minute, then laughing like a fool the very next. He was like a child that way.”

“I used to think him capricious,” Allen said, toying with the stem of his glass. “Then I realized he was simply absurdly distactable.”

“He was,” Neah agreed. “Focus, clarity, perspective — these things did not come to him naturally.”

Allen’s smile faded.

“They did not,” he said. “Rather, they — they diminished with time.”

Neah’s expression softened. Allen had never seen him so — gentle. Perhaps it was the drink. Allen drank deeply himself, relieved for an excuse not to go on. The wine was even sweeter on the second sip.

“Did he ever frighten you?” Neah asked. “Be honest with me.”

Allen lowered his glass.

“Sometimes. He’d… yell at the walls, or launch into black moods for seemingly no reason at all. he never hit me, but sometimes he — he’d grab me. By the shoulders, or by my wrist, and he’d grab too tight and it… he… he never _meant_ to hurt me.”

“I know, Allen.”

Allen shook his head.

“He was scared. He was so scared, but there wasn’t anything I could—”

The music slowed to a sway. The dancers stepped apart; men bowing deeply, women curtsying coyly. A wave of smattered applause traveled throughout the hall.

“I even considered having him institutionalized,” Allen went on lowly, heart in his throat. “Towards the end, when he couldn’t even leave the apartment…” He realized he was close to tears. Somehow, the fact seemed vaguely comical. Crying like a sad waif in the middle of a dance hall. He tried to laugh; the sound he actually managed to produce was something else entirely. Something sad and ugly. “Am I a terrible son?”

Neah shook his head.

“No worse than I was a brother,” he said, low as smoke. “I... considered it too. More than considered it, I was set on it. I thought, _Just a few months in a sanatorium. A reputable one, an expensive one, where high-strung ladies go to write poetry and paint ponies._  I thought it would set mother’s mind at ease, at least, and… I thought… I thought he could get better. Naive of me, perhaps. But we were barely twenty-two at the time.”

He looked out over the ballroom, restless. The summer quintet began to play again, shifting into a sweet and dreamlike moderato.

“Like a fool,” Neah continued, “I gave him my decision. He felt threatened, became paranoid. He claimed I was trying to have him locked up, that they’d never let him out — throw away the key and leave him to rot. He sounded so… so goddamn betrayed.”

Allen turned away.

“Neah…”

“I drove him out,” he said. “I was the reason he left."

Allen covered his face with his hands. He breathed in deeply, smelling nothing but the dense linen of his gloves. In his mind’s eye — was Mana, kind-eyed and strange. Clasping his head in his hands. Stooping while he walked, shuffling his feet. Staring motionless at a wall until Allen asked he was looking at — then shaking himself like a wet dog, pitching up a harlequin grin. _Nothing, little Allen._

“This is…” Allen scrubbed at his eyes. “This is terrible party talk!”

“It is,” Neah agreed, morose. He slapped his hand against his leg again. He let out another sigh, this one big and bone-deep. “Allen,” he said, turning to face Allen head-on. There was a certain urgency in his tone. A plea. “You were a good son. You _are_ a good son. And Mana… he was a good man, too, though he wasn’t perfect. Though _nothing_ is ever perfect.“

“Sometimes, terrible things happen,” Allen said dully, “and there is no reason for it. Mr. Link tried to tell me that.”

Neah shook his head.

“I think there is a reason,” he said. “I haven’t been to mass in years, but… deep down, there’s a deist in me that won’t quit. I believe there’s a reason for everything. I was born for a reason. I was able to call Mana _brother_ for a reason. He ran away for a reason. He met you for a reason — and _chose_ you for a reason. And he died for a reason. Of course, in the end, I don’t think that reason is for us to know. The truth died with him. And… quite frankly, that’s _fine,_ Allen. We all live and die with our secrets. What matters — is that you find your own reason to keep living. To keep giving a shit.”

Allen held his wrist in his hands, rubbing tentatively beneath his glove. His skin felt mottled and strange; veins raised up against the calcified surface. Someone else’s arm. Someone else’s nightmare.

“Have you? Found a reason?”

“No,” Neah said. “But… for the first time I can remember… I want one.”

They stared at each other, each weighing the other up. Allen felt, then, that he was only Neah for the first time. Duckfluff hair and eyes like hard candies, the grim tug of his lips — pain and grief and fury fury etched around his eyes, scoured, as if by an artist’s scratch brush. His eyes and even teeth gleamed; everything about him was dark, and swallowed the light.

“You’re not so terrible, Neah,” he said. “In fact, you’re sort of decent.”

Neah made a face that was maybe a smile. With him, it was always hard to tell.

“Try me when I’m sober, whelp.”

“Maybe I will,” Allen said.

“Yes, well—” Neah looked away. Embarrassment? “Your mistake.”

“You should show me your concertos.”

“And you should take your gloves off every now and then,” Neah said. He pointed over Allen’s shoulder. “I see your friend. He seems in need of aid.”

Allen followed his index and found Link. He was flanked by a sea of ballgowns, some of which even seemed to contain women. He looked fantastically uncomfortable. He seemed to be struggling to refasten his coat, unfasten by the tactless hands of a courtier.

Allen curled his fist against his lips and found that they were twitching.

“... I'll be seeing you, Mr. Campbell.”

Neah raised his glass.

“Likewise. Little brat.”

He turned back into the hall, eyes still stinging. His heart was aching.  Of course it was aching. How could it not? He held fast to the pain, cradled it — and beneath his very fingertips, he felt it change. It still hurt, like it always had — but the hurt had changed. He felt lighter, somehow. Like a weight had been lifted from his lungs.

It made him think — that maybe, one day, he wouldn’t notice the pain at all.

That in itself felt like a small miracle.

He climbed through a sea of bodies, packed with the nauseating aroma of veviter and sweat. His pulse pounded in his ears steadily, thumping like a second heart, until the music subsumed it entirely.

He lurched forwards like a sleepwalker.

To the place Link would be, luminous as a marigold —

In all his majesty.

All his glory.

 

(✽)

 

 _I need your help,_ Allen wanted to say. _I’m selfish like that. Selfish and stupid. I need your time, I need your attention. I need you to look at me. I need you to listen. I've been looking for something... for a long time, now. Something important._

_I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but I think —I think it all comes back to you._

_So, carry me._

_Carry me._

_Carry me through._

 

(✽)

 

“Mr. Link!” Allen called out, waving both arms above his head. “Mr. Howard Link!”

Link snapped to attention. So did about four women. They’d encircled him like vultures — beautiful and young, long hair plaited to the current fashion. They wore matching dresses, diaphanous and white. Ethereal, dove-like. Lunal. Bridal.

Allen choked down a stab of envy.

“Mr. Walker,” Link said, his voice immediately betraying his relief.  “If you’d excuse me,” Link said, addressing his entourage, “I must greet my friend.”

They dispersed reluctantly, murmuring amongst themselves. At that, Allen felt strangely triumphant. He fought the urge to stick his tongue out at them.

He was Link’s _friend._ He was _important._

Wanted.

“Making your escape?” Allen grinned, leaning in and raising a brow.

“Absolutely,” Link said. Then, eyes jumping down to Allen’s throat, he frowned. “Your bowtie is _horribly_ askew, you know. That’s unacceptable.”

Allen laughed a little, raising his hands palm-up in defeat. Link, unmoved, went in to redo Allen’s tie, fingers working deftly over the fabric.

“You look somewhat unkempt yourself,” Allen deflected, gesturing in Link’s general direction. He wasn’t wrong, either. One of Link’s cuffs had come undone, and there was a number of suspect wrinkles marring the otherwise crisp line of his left sleeve. Link glanced down at himself, looking somewhat sheepish.

“Yes, well… they kept tugging at my clothes.”

Allen snorted.

“Goodness, Mr. Link! I didn’t realize you were the type women liked.”

“They don’t like me,” Link blurted, too fast and loud. “They like my connections.”

He stepped back; Allen touched his bowtie. It felt a little more secure, if somewhat claustrophobic.

“Proximity to power is quite the aphrodisiac,” he said. Then, thoughtlessly, “I’m sure your good looks are an added advantage.”

Link stared blankly.

“You think I’m good-looking?”

Now _there_ was a question worth avoiding.

Redirecting hastily, Allen forced a smile.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr. Link?”

“Am I… ah,” Link’s eyes darted, his jaw working, “It’s — a charming party, to be certain, and… Mr. Walker.”

“Yes?”

“I am very, very anxious, and very, very drunk.”

Allen laughed, this time for real. He could see it now, the uncertainty in Link’s stance, the colour in his cheeks, the uncharacteristic mistiness in his expression.  His eyes were as remote as eyes could be.

“I didn’t take you for a drinker,” Allen said.

“Generally, I’m not,” Link agreed.  He gripped his head in one hand, brows creasing into a little frown. “Those ladies… they kept bringing me gin.”

“Too polite to say no?”

“Too cowardly.”

“Poor Mr. Link,” Allen sighed. “What a tragic fate, to be beset by scores of beautiful, affluent young women.”

“I don’t even _like_ gin.”

“Well, what do you like?”

“You,” he said.

That was the answer Allen had been looking for. He turned his body slowly, lithely, lifting himself towards Link on his toes.

“You look flush, sir.”

“Hard to avoid,” Link returned. Then, with whatever discretion that remained intact, “I saw you speaking with Mr. Campbell.”

“Ah...” Allen bowed his head. “We had… well. A few loose ends to tie up.”

_A father and a brother and a burial between us._

Link nodded, as if he somehow understood.

“Well, how do you feel?”

“About Neah? Better. Worse. It’s complicated,” Allen confessed. He tugged at his collar, throwing a sideways glance at the open veranda. “I only know… that this party is absurdly crowded for one so tame. Perhaps we ought to escape out into the garden.”

A spark ignited in Link’s glassy eyes,

“Yes,” he said, leaning in. “Take me away from here. I beg of you.”

Allen smiled, fanning his fingertips over his lips.

“Oh, my dear Link. I can’t say no to that face.”

 

(✽)

 

 

Like wayward children, they made their great escape.

If he could’ve, Allen would have taken Link by the hand. He would’ve led him like a child, linked by their fingertips. He would have laughed into the crook of Link’s neck, pressed a shy kiss to his throat. There was so much he would’ve done — so much he would’ve _taken_ if he wasn’t certain Link would turn from him.

A whole world of tenderness. Wasted.

He grappled with himself. Reminded himself to be content with what he had.

To want not.

(But the heart of him was smoldering, glowing like a cinder — and it was _blind.)_

They navigated their way through the crowd, slipping out through the open veranda. The garden, isolated by high, fastidiously manicured hedges, was almost entirely empty. Allen stepped down onto the stone path, moving deeper into the thickets until all music and laughter all but faded. Link followed close behind, steps muted against the grass.

There was a stained glass romanticism to this place, this corner of the world. Iron fences, spiral hedges, low statuettes of blushing girls — and the roses. There was nothing but roses here. The garden was a vision of them. They were fat and heavy as camellias, smelling deeply and shockingly of damask. All creamy pinks and whites.

“Like a dream,” Link said, casting his eyes skywards. The moon was full and round, a perfect disk.

The surface of the running fountain was as clear as a mirror. The garden was dead silent, save for the sound of flowing water and Allen’s feet trampling the grass.

They were alone, as they were meant to be.

_Tell me that we’ll always be together._

“I still prefer our greenhouse,” Allen said, watching in fascination as a beetle crawled across the stonework. “I miss the orchids already. I love how wild they are, how completely they’ve overrun the place.”

“Untamed,” Link said. Allen nodded.

“Something like that. It’s not that profound,” Allen said. He tucked his hair behind his ear and smiled. “But the roses are lovely. I wonder how they grow in so many shades? I can imagine Sheril having them all painted by hand.”

“He can be… overzealous.”

“Oh, he’s a nightmare,” Allen sighed. “Ignoble, extravagant, obsessed with reputation, clawing for relevance — he’s the exact sort of aristocrat I hate. Plus, he treats Tricia terribly. Like a trophy. It infuriates me.”

Link sighed.

“Unfortunately, that happens to be the standard attitude amongst the English elite.”

“It’s absurd!” Allen protested. Then, he declared, “If I had a wife, I’d treat her like royalty. Like a goddess.”

Link made a valiant attempt not to roll his eyes.

“Would you, now?”

“Naturally,” Allen said. Then, gears turning, “Aren’t you interested in taking a wife, Mr. Link?”

Link’s eyebrows shot up. The colour drained from his face with remarkable speed.

“Where is _this_ coming from?”

“I’m curious. That’s all, sir.”

Link looked downright mortified. He reached slowly for his braid, clutching it desperately as he considered the question.

“Well, I — I suppose I will marry,” he said. “Eventually. When the time is right. It’s only logical that a man of my position seek an advantageous marriage.” He let go of his braid, leaving it to fall softly against his back. “However… I’m still relatively young. I don’t see any reason to rush. I’ve plenty of time to find an amenable woman. A lady from a well-respected bloodline would be ideal.”

Allen scoffed.

“How romantic.”

“Marriage is the business of inheritance and alliance. A business transaction, if you will. And I excel in business,” Link said. He put his hand over his heart, frowning slightly. “Still, somehow — when I heard you talk about your lover... I felt a stab of envy. I’m not sure why. I’d never felt…”

He faltered for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words.

“I have never experienced the great highs of passion you described,” Link decided, returning to his senses. “I suppose that’s it. I’m sure… such love is truly beautiful. Even though painful.”

“Oh, Mr. Link,” Allen sighed, heart twisting, twisting like the head of a pin, “you are too pure to know such ecstatic suffering. Put it out of your mind. Instead, I pray you know a good love, with a good, wholesome heiress. Perhaps a Habsburg princess?”

“A princess?” Link’s brows creased in distaste. “No thank you, sir.”

“Picky, are we?” Allen hummed. He laced his hands together, dropping his chin down against his fingers. “You… _have_ been with a woman before, haven’t you?”

“Excuse me?” Link looked quietly bewildered, as if in the mere suggestion of a woman troubled him greatly. Allen rolled his eyes.

“You may have the carriage of an aristocrat, but you’re a red-blooded man like any other,” Allen joked, forcing a smile. “You cannot honestly tell me there have been no women in your life.”

_Though I may hate them. Though I may hate the very idea of them._

Link shifted away, looking uncomfortable.

“Some,” he said. Then, reluctantly, “They don’t last very long.”

Allen laughed, bright and sunny and fake.

“Are your tastes truly so rapacious?”

“Quite the opposite,” Link admitted. “When it comes to all matters female, I can scarcely muster the interest. I respect the intelligence of women, but their charms are wasted on me.”

Allen felt a tug of joy beneath his breastbone. A selfish, jealous joy.

“If you’re so disinterested, why bother marrying at all?”

“I have money, Mr. Walker,” Link said, voice full of conviction. He’d spoken these words before. “A promising position, too. What I lack is a title — and… well. A _storied_ lineage. Marrying into an old and noble house would legitimize me, at least in the eyes of upper society. They despise new money.”

“Silly Link,” Allen smiled, foxlike. “What about love?”

There was a quiver to Link’s laughter. A little melody.

“So many shrewd men are led astray by love,” he said. “They lose all sense to the wiles of women. I’m relieved to be immune.”

Allen wandered a little further down the cobblestone path.

It wasn’t women that removed his senses — but that didn’t make him any better, or any less of a fool.

 _Led astray._ That was a good turn of phrase.

“Woman don’t tempt you at all?”

“They do not.”

Allen looked down into the fountain, watching his own reflection undulate over a smooth and calcite marble. “Not even a little?”

“Afraid not.”

_Don’t speak don’t speak don’t take he’s not yours —_

“What about men?” Allen asked, turning away from the fountain. Link suppressed a smile, bemused.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What about men?” Allen pressed, taking a slow step closer. “Are you immune to the wiles of men?”

Link’s eyes rested on Allen’s frame for a long moment, slow and deliberate. Gin-heavy.

“I don’t know… what you’re asking,” he said.

Allen’s stomach lurched beneath his ribs. That had been a mistake. A misstep. But Link had given him a way out—

“I — I was just being silly,” he said hastily, lips jumping into a guarded smile.  “Think nothing of it.” He folded himself at the waist, redirecting his attention to a knot of pale flowers. “You know, I think I like these little tea roses best. They’re adorable.”

“No, don’t change the subject.”

As quickly as the universe could expand under Link's eyes, it now contracted. _What have I done?_ Allen laughed, too terrified to meet Link’s gaze.

Terror in every inch of him.

“I was only making a joke, Link.”

“And yet, it struck a chord with me,” he said. There was no anger in his tone, Allen realized. Not an ounce of disgust, either. What he found instead was a real, open curiosity. A wonder. “The wiles of men. I… I’ve scarcely considered it. Men have their own sort of beauty, don’t they?”

Allen smiled and smiled and smiled, pained.

“I... suppose they do.”

“You certainly have your own sort of beauty,” Link said. He was coming up behind Allen, moving as gently and as surely as a cat. “Soft as a girl, but decidedly boyish.”

Allen laughed again, not knowing what to think. What to hope. His heart had begun to pick up, beating against his ribcage — and it _hurt,_ but there was no stopping it. No fighting it.

“You flatter me,” he said.

“I’m only speaking my mind,” Link said seriously. “I’ve had far too much to drink to do otherwise.” He stopped in his tracks, perhaps to collect himself. “I suppose, now that I think about it… I can understand, with immense clarity, the way women love men.”

“You mean… hypothetically?”

“No! Yes? No, I —” Link made a strained sound — laughter? “My God. It’s an odd thought. Perhaps an ungodly thought, now that I think about. And yet, the idea…I’ve never considered this before. But — there’s something, something compelling...”

He fumbled for words.  
  
“Surely you know,” Allen said, voice dropping low, “there are men who lie with men.”

The sort of gossip one hears at boarding school. Court whispers, church warning. The tips of Link’s ears went red. Poor thing, Allen thought. So proper. So pious.

Stupid, really, that Allen wanted him so. Absurd.

And yet, there it was.

“I… suppose I do.”

“Then surely you know,” Allen said, “that there are men who love other men.”

“I…”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” Link said, quiet. Voice rushing up from within him, slow and dark, and masculine. Amber honey. A trace of uncensored awe. “I’ve never been in love. Not with a woman, at least. I’ve never considered that… that I might be capable of loving a man.”

The murmur that Link’s voice had declined to was doing ridiculous, unreal things to Allen's stomach.

Mad things.

“Perhaps… we could test that,” Allen said.

“How so?”

They were close now. Link’s chin pointed downwards, eyes cast low over Allen. Funny how a handful of inches could leave Allen feeling so small. And so thrilled.

“You could kiss me,” he said, heart pounding. “Just… if you just want to see…”

He struggled in silence. Link’s eyes were wide and dark, full of moonlight.

“Kiss you?” He repeated. His eyes flickered down to Allen’s lips, an obvious consideration in the way they lingered, settled. “Would that really be alright with you?”

“I… don’t mind,” Allen said, a shiver passing through him. “But… if you don’t want to—”

“I want to,” Link said. He was drawing nearer, spellbound — Allen reached out, tentative.

He tested the muscle in both of Link’s upper arm with purposeful fingers, holding them there. He felt solid. Solid and real, almost too much, a slow overwhelm. “I’ll try.”

“Link.”

Link’s lips found Allen’s, soft and clumsy. Earnest. Allen was blindsided by it — not because it was a particularly good kiss, but because it was Link. Perfect Link in his church suit and solemn tie, grabbing his shoulders and _kissing_ him. Link’s mouth was moving against his, hungry. They kissed lavishly. Indulgently. Their lips made a soft, wet sound when they parted.

They didn’t part for long.

Allen curled his fists into Link’s lapels, drawing him closer, tasting him. Link’s tongue was smooth and warm, his kiss commanding. He tasted like gin and sugar. Like brackish water. Like a day in April. His broad hands found their way to Allen’s waist, holding him above the hips.

Allen wanted to scream his joy of being caught. He didn’t know why it felt so good.

He didn’t know _anything_ could still feel this good.

_Wonder of wonders._

“I think I could,” Link murmured, turning his head to break the kiss.

“Link?” Allen panted, leaning back every slightly to find Link’s eyes.

“I think… I could,” Link said again, eyes blurried. “I think I could love you.”

Allen felt something churning within him, an emotion attempting to be realized.

“I’m sorry,” Allen said. “If I… if I was a woman, I could…”

_I could marry you. I would. I could be your Habsburg girl. And you could be my reason._

“What are you talking about?” Allen felt Link’s laughter rather than heard it. It passed through his shoulders like a shiver, black and warm. “I told you before, I don’t want a woman. I want…”

The shiver went on and on, long after Link’s laughter died out. Link’s hands wound up Allen’s back, feeling him, so warm and so secure. Shelter.

“You’re shaking.”

“I know,” Allen said. Then,  “Please don’t go,”

“I won’t.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise,” Link said. Then, kissing the corner of Allen’s mouth, “I’m right here.”

  
  
  
  
A FINAL FLOWER (OR: THE SWEETEST DEATH IS MINE AND MINE ALONE)

IIII

 

Blooming _._

 

 _I used to think the world was full of monsters,_ Allen murmured. They were lying in Allen’s bed, half-illuminated through candlelight. An arm wound about Allen’s shoulder, warm and firm and wonderful. _Like the overseer. Like Cosimo. Like my parents. Perfect monsters. Perfect villains. I thought to myself: This world is terrifying. But when I was with Mana, I forgot my fears. Everything felt okay. Even the worst bits felt bearable._

Link tucked a stray hair behind Allen’s ear.

 _It turns out,_ Allen said, _that I was right from the very beginning. The world is terrifying. Inherently. Implicitly._

 _Because it is full of monsters_?Link asked, his naked body shifting against Allen’s.

Allen shook his head.

_No, because it is full of people._

They made love as only young men could. Their bodies touched along every plane — from their aligned chests, to where Allen’s legs had wrapped around Link's waist. His feet arched along Link’s backside, brushing softly, seeking purchase.

 

(✽)

 

Rooting.

 

 _There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you, Allen,_ Link said, as they lay in bed together. He was rolling a cigarette. The only one Allen ever saw him smoke.

_I was born in a whorehouse. My father was one out of maybe a hundred men. My mother was fished out of the Thames river a month after my birth, floating face-down._

_I don’t mourn her. How could I? I don’t remember her face, don’t recall her name — and I don’t know what kind of life she could’ve given me. You need to understand, Allen._

_I was nothing, Allen. And my mother gave me nothing._

_But Leverrier gave me a miracle._

_I was adopted by the Leverrier family when I was ten. Leverrier’s wife was barren and could not conceive. But Leverrier needed to groom a successor. He needed to secure his fortune._

_They came into my orphanage… I’ll never forget the sound of Madame Leverrier’s heels clicking against the tiles. And Leverrier himself — I had never seen a man so resplendent, so austere. He was wearing this rich, dark brown suit; the most beautifully expensive suit I’d ever seen. They interviewed all 30 boys. But I had the strongest literacy skills._

_He chose me. Me._

_You’re not of noble birth either. I like that about you. It’s something… I can relate to. But all the same, I didn’t want… you to see me as a fraud._

Allen kissed his nose, put both hands against Link’s chest and pressed him flat against the mattress.

 _You’re not a fraud,_ he said, lips ghosting the line of Link’s jaw. _You’re the noblest man I know. And you are the man I love._

Link laughed. Full of light. Full of awe. He lifted one hand gently, cupping Allen’s bare shoulder — right at the intersection where flesh mottled into scars.

 _And you’re my revelation._ He closed his eyes, took in a deep breath; there was something impossibly erotic about the way his chest lifted. _My second miracle._

 _If you’re very good, I’ll show you a third,_ Allen said, crawling down the length of Link’s body, settling down between his knees.

Link stopped talking, then.

 

(✽)

 

 

_Bursting._

 

“Tell me about your lover,” Link said, turning his cheek against the mattress.

Allen laughed. “Jealous, are we?”

“Positively livid,” Link agreed. His voice was curiously without rancor. Sex had a relaxing effect on him. His expression was clear and open. “Tell me,” he murmured, voice heavy and dark. In the pitch black, Allen could feel him moving closer; the sheets rustled beneath his body with a slick, silky sound. “Did you love him?”

Allen released a sigh. It passed between them, the sweetest of echoes.

“I thought I did,” he said. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “There was – a thrill to him. Making love in strange languages, behind velvet curtains. In damp, cloistered dressing rooms. I found him – exotic. Dangerous. But, as you might know – I have a fondness for dangerous things. Tigers and guns and powerful men. But…”

Link’s hand appeared on Allen’s shoulder, thumb smoothing its way down towards his inner arm.

“When Mana died, you know, he had no idea what to say to me. How to comfort me. He pulled away from me. I don’t know why he did that. I’ll never know. When I told him about… about Mana’s inheritance, that I’d be going away, he just kept standing there, his back up against the vanity. Just kept smoking that awful cigarette. I guess I wanted him to fight for me.”

Allen laughed, “I’m such a fool, Link. But... I don’t love him, you know. Not anymore. i promise."

“Do you mean that?” Link asked, voice raw with a deep and painful sincerity. “Or are you just telling me what you think I need to hear?”

Allen punished him in a thousand kisses.

“Link,” he said, stone-serious, “if I try to leave you, do you promise to fight for me? Even a token resistance will do.”

“I promise,” Link said, smoke-tongued.

“And when you marry a Habsburg princess,” Allen said, wiping his tears away, wet and heavy on his cheeks, “will you promise to never forget me?”

“That’s not funny, Allen.”

“I know,” Allen said. "I know."

Link shifted against the sheets, drawing Allen's body against his own.

“I’d have to be dead to forget you, Allen Walker.”

It was a lie, and an agonizing one at that.

“I don’t want to go to sleep just yet,” Allen said.

“No? Alright. What would you like to do, then?”

“I want to make love again,” he said. “Then, I want to sneak down into the kitchen and have a cup of tea. Carry it out to the greenhouse. Sit among the orchids until I’m finally sick of them. And then... when the sun rises—”

“I’ll carry you back to bed,” Link said. “Little fool.”

“I am what I am, Mr. Link.”

“I can see that.”

“Now, have at me. You wouldn’t leave a lover unsatisfied, would you?”

He would not.

Call it a small kindness.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ITS STILL THE 7TH WHERE I LIVE I MADE IT
> 
> foxflowering @ twit


End file.
